


My Insides are Copper

by realjane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:51:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 65,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4644681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realjane/pseuds/realjane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When her childhood nemesis comes to her rescue, Hermione is forced to confront past trauma--and the consequences of a war with no clear winners. The "Brightest Witch" no longer, Hermione finds herself immersed in a crisis of purpose, which is both hindered and healed by the presence of Draco Malfoy.</p><p>When he sees her for the first time in ten long years, Draco is forced to reckon with past deeds he has long worked to forget. Despite having one foot planted firmly in the muggle world, and a tarnished heart, Draco finds something in Hermione that has evaded him his entire life: hope.</p><p>Ten years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione and Draco meet by chance in Muggle London. Mutual curiosity sparks an unlikely magnetism between them, but neither of them are the children that they once were. The nasty boy is gone, and in his place is a man left almost passionless. The passionate girl has been culled by the isolation of infamy, and in her place is a woman without much left to give. They're both missing an essential piece: an anchor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bananas for Draco redemption fics. I think the idea that a victim of childhood abuse and brainwashing could eventually become the master of his own fate is both important and powerful--let alone that he could become successful in his own way, and eventually fall in love. Despite the Almighty's opinion on the matter (sorry Joanne, thanks for creating Draco, I'll take it from here), I think a hopeful adult life for Draco is well worth exploring. So here we are.
> 
> I own nothing, Rowling owns all (even if she loathes the romanticization of Draco Malfoy). Expect strong language and themes in future chapters... perhaps sexy times...
> 
> {first story on AO3, zillionth fic. unbeta'd, but written by a grammar nazi.}

Hermione worked the thick salve into her palms. She shook as the pain ebbed and her fingers ceased to tingle. She curled her fingers into her palms and breathed in, waiting for the stabbing sting to shoot through her wrists. For once, she was spared. It wasn’t so bad, when the ache was reduced to a mere annoyance. She could hold a quill. She could grasp her wand. She could pull her hair into a tie.

It was the ache inside that she couldn’t shake with a mere topical cure. Sadness was strange to her, in the way it crept in slowly, wrapping itself around her lungs and climbing up her spine. Her office became a cave; she couldn’t bring herself to open the curtains. The low lamplight made sure nobody noticed how little sleep she got, how painful it was for her to hold her head up under the weight of it all.

Harry was positive that she was depressed, but Hermione wouldn’t hear of it. She wouldn’t come over for dinner. She wouldn’t leave her office for lunch. If it wasn’t for the dim glow through the fogged glass in her office door, he wouldn’t have been positive that she was coming to work. But just like you could always count on, Hermione’s work was always complete and on his desk by the due date. What was lacking from her work was passion. She did the bare minimum, and no more. She did as much as her heart could handle, and her hands could bare.

Ginny became Hermione’s caretaker, bursting into her office unannounced and chipper with lunch or news, or a copy of the Daily Prophet. All to help Hermione remember that people cared. Harry and Ginny couldn’t stand the thought of Hermione being alone--of her feeling alone. But she really had no family after the obliviation of her parents and their inevitable move to Australia, and as far as Hermione knew, her extended family didn’t know anything about her either. In Ginny’s opinion, Hermione didn’t know just how much trouble she was in. It was time to help her shake the darkness.

“I have a great friend I’d love to introduce to you,” Ginny said, crumpling up the paper which had once contained her sandwich. Hermione picked at a sparse salad, separating the contents into sad piles.

“Hmm,” Hermione grunted.

“He’s a muggle and he’s super cute. His name is Gary.”

“Good for him,” Hermione said, stacking her croutons into a pyramid.

“He’s keen to meet you too, tonight,” Ginny said, pulling Hermione’s plate out of her reach. “Come on, ‘Mione. It’s only dinner.”

“I have a date with a bottle of Sauvingnon Blanc, Gin. I’m swamped.” Hermione pulled her sleeves down over her fingers. Ginny grabbed Hermione’s hands.

“Darling, I think you need to get out there. In the world. Amongst the living.”

“Are you implying that I’m a zombie?” Hermione asked with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Worse,” Ginny said. “You don’t even try to eat brains. You just sit at your desk, or sit in your house, alone.”

“I’m happier alone.”

“Bullshit.”

“Ginny,” Hermione warned, leaning back in her chair. “Please don’t.”

“Then go to St. Mungo’s and see a healer. I’ll leave you be.” Ginny crossed her arms.

Hermione studied her friend’s face. Ginny’s pregnancy wasn’t yet showing in her face, except that it had made her skin radiant. She was positively sparkling. She was happy. That is what happiness looks like, Hermione thought.

“What kind of name is Gary?” Hermione said, sighing in resignation.

Ginny clapped her hands. “You’ll go?”

“I’ll go. But you have to help me get ready.” Hermione collected her coat.

***

Gary was not super cute. Gary was a skinny, rat-faced, balding guy with ill-fitting clothing and an overwhelming scent of aftershave. But his smile was okay, and he didn’t look like a serial killer, so Hermione got into his car (albeit reluctantly). He made atrocious small-talk, and jokes about the stock market and his hobby of following American politics in order to predict the market. Hermione said nothing, while Gary said enough for three people.

The pulled up outside of a rather expensive restaurant, the kind with no name printed on the facade and a doorman who looked like he might be a member of the mafia. Gary did not help Hermione out of his expensive car, but he did offer her his arm as they walked into the restaurant. She thanked him with a half-smile, but resigned herself to studying the pattern in the carpet. As they waited for their table to be ready (Gary had made a reservation as soon as Ginny confirmed Hermione’s desire to meet him), Hermione let her gaze drift around the decadent restaurant… and come to a rest on a rather decadently dressed gentleman.

His clothing was more elaborate than simpleton muggle suits, but not as extravagant as wizarding dress robes. The man wore a black, high-collared jacket with dark green brocade down the lapel. The coat was so perfectly tailored to his well-muscled shoulders that it seemed a second skin. She assumed that his pants too would be perfectly formed to his body, could they be seen. In the man’s slender fingers, he balanced a glass of scotch, but he didn’t sip it. He seemed to be waiting for someone, but didn’t seem impatient for their arrival. He looked like the sort of man who was content to be alone. Hermione wondered what that felt like.

The man’s face was obscured by the dim lighting and a shock of blond hair, which fell over his eyes. The fallen lock seemed out of place compared to his perfect apparel, but also somewhat charming. The cut of his jaw seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

Maybe if she saw his eyes--

“Right this way,” the hostess said, pulling Hermione’s focus. Gary gestured for her to walk before him and she hazarded one last glance at the alluring man in the corner. She gasped.

“Hermione?” Gary waited for her to sit. He had chosen a seat for her, which faced her away from the familiar man in the corner. She did not venture a glance over her shoulder, and she hoped that the man hadn’t seen or recognized her. He looked so different, so much older. His clothing made so much more sense. The fact that he was out in muggle London made less sense. She tried to put him out of her mind. If he had seen her, she was positive that he would not call her out here. He probably wouldn’t even speak to her. Heck, she should have said hello and gotten it over with. 

With Hermione working hard not to think about the man in the corner, the date progressed in a rather boring fashion. Hermione laughed at appropriate moments, tried not to be insulted when Gary ordered for her, and tried not to count his rather visible nose hairs. 

And then, the waiter bumped into her shoulder with a scalding plate. And it wasn’t the temperature that broke her, but the feeling that the waiter hadn’t seen her. He just barrelled through, like people always did. Never truly seeing her, never considering her… just taking her down. 

Her focus softened and light streams crawled towards her through low-hanging fog. Every person seemed caught in slow-motion, and none took note of the fog or bright lights. And then they blurred too.

And then the light flashed, and she slipped.

***

He gripped her arms as she convulsed on the restaurant floor. Her date sat dumbfounded, while waiters scurried around them, offering ice chips and generally being unhelpful. 

“You!” He pointed at the nearest suit-clad dining guest. “Put your mobile to good use and call the paramedics.” The man did so quickly, without a second thought. 

She stopped convulsing rather suddenly, so he gently turned her on her side, to make sure she didn’t swallow her tongue or vomit. She shook, trembling in his hands, but she was not conscious. Draco divested himself of his jacket and wrapped it around her. Only then did he accept the offer of ice chips from a frantic waiter. He barely touched the ice to her forehead and her eyes opened in tiny slits. He breathed out heavily in relief. 

“You’ve had a seizure,” Draco said evenly. “The paramedics have been summoned--” he glanced at her date, who himself had blanched. 

She nodded slightly. “May I sit up?” she peeped.

“Allow me to help,” Draco said. He bore her weight so she could sit upright. Another waiter brought a glass of water. “Would you like to try drinking some water?”

She nodded again. He held the glass for her and tipped it slowly so she could sip it. Several droplets dribbled down her chin, so he used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe them away. 

“What a lousy date,” she whispered. Draco looked up at her date--or rather, the chair that he used to occupy.

“How do you feel?”

“Lightheaded,” she said. 

“Do you feel nauseated?”

“No, just cold. My scarf…” she gestured to her overturned chair, over which her scarf was haphazardly dangling. Draco pulled the scarf free and helped her wrap it loosely about her neck.

Three paramedics entered the restaurant pulling a stretcher. Draco stood to make room for them and watched as they gently loaded her onto the bed. He collected her purse from beneath the table, as well as her coat from the floor. Following the paramedics to the ambulance, he didn’t look back at the scene of her collapse… or at his own abandoned date. Poor Pansy… he just never gave her enough consideration. He never considered her at all.

“Do you know this woman?” one of the paramedics asked him.

“Her name is Hermione Granger,” Draco replied. “I attended school with her.”

“Would you like this man to come along with us?” another paramedic asked Hermione. Draco didn’t hear her answer, but he was allowed to slide in beside her. 

Two of the three paramedics climbed into the front, while the third administered an IV in the back. Hermione didn’t flinch when the needle went in, but she turned her arm over subtly to hide her lettered scar as long as she could. When the paramedic reached for her arm, Draco overcompensated a bump in the road and sort of… hip checked the paramedic. Not enough to really jar him, just enough to make him disconnect the blood pressure clip from Hermione’s finger and send the machine into a beeping fit.

“Apologies,” Draco muttered. He glanced at Hermione. She had pulled her sleeve lower to cover the scar.

How long had it been since he’d last seen her? He couldn’t remember what she used to look like when they were at school. I mean, she looked like she did now, just… less… less woman. Her hair was longer now. But now, she looked broken. He had seen her like that before. He didn’t enjoy it. In fact, seeing her like that the first time had made him regret every second he tormented her as a child. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he was there for her now in part because he felt remorse for that… but he also just felt pulled to be there for her. Nobody would do that for him, and her date had abandoned her… no, he wasn’t doing it because he felt sorry for her. 

He wanted to be there.

“Draco?” she peeped. He looked up at her. “Did you get my purse and my coat?”

He held them up.

“Thank you.”

Draco nodded. “You gave everyone a pretty big scare back there,” he said gently. “Do you have seizures often?”

She shook her head. “It has happened once before, but it has been a long time.”

“When was the last time?” the paramedic asked. 

Hermione glanced between Draco and the paramedic. She bit her lip. “About five years ago.”

“Have you been diagnosed with epilepsy?” the paramedic asked.

“No. I experienced... physical trauma.” Hermione tugged her sleeve down over her telling scar. Draco’s stomach turned.

“Do you have a history of depression?” the paramedic asked.

“Yes,” she answered quickly, softly.

The paramedic took Hermione through a checklist of medical history questions, and Draco assisted in producing her identification and insurance from her wallet. When they reached the hospital, Draco trailed behind like a stray dog. He filled out her intake paperwork, asked her every question on the sheet, helped her sit up when the nurse came to check her out, and stayed after the doctor left. Overnight evaluation was needed, they said. Hermione had hit her head before Draco reached her, so they wanted to be sure she was not concussed. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Draco asked gently. “They’ll be waking you up every two hours all night.”

“I don’t like to be alone,” she said. That was all he needed to know. 

Draco loosened his tie and laid it over the back of his chair. The nurse brought a cup of water with a lid and straw. “I’ll take it,” he said. The nurse handed him the cup and closed the door behind her as she left. “Here.” Draco carefully retracted the safety rail on the side of her bed and sat. Hermione leaned forward as best as she could to sip a bit of water. Once she sat back, Draco set the cup on her side table.

She watched him. He was still slim as ever, but no longer looked like a ferret. He was muscular now, and far taller than she remembered. There was something missing, though… perhaps it was the smug grin that had always accompanied their past interactions. Now, he looked… tired. Serious, but not mean.

“How did we wind up here?” she breathed.

“We rode in an ambulance,” Draco said with a light smile. Hermione smiled too, despite her growing headache.

“How did you end up at that restaurant?” she clarified.

“I was on a date,” he said. “So were you.”

“So I was. Do you think he’ll call me?” 

Draco scoffed. “I’m not sure he stayed long enough to see you regain consciousness.”

“Oh gods,” Hermione said, covering her face with her hands. “Can you tell me how it happened?”

“Well,” he started. 

He had entered the restaurant about fifteen minutes before Pansy was planning to arrive, positioning himself in a corner booth so he could both survey the room, and watch for his date. And then who should walk into the restaurant but Hermione Granger, an acquaintance from another life, in another world. With a man. He had prickled at the sight of that mousy man, the way he bristled when Hermione laughed. How rude. When one is on a date, one ought to act at least slightly interested in their companion. Hermione certainly pretended to be interested in the boring man’s long-winded commentary about stock trading. By the time the appetizers had come and gone, the man was on his third whiskey sour, and Draco was still nursing his first glass of scotch. And waiting for a very late Pansy Parkinson. The waiter brought out the entree--Hermione’s date had ordered for her--but one of the hot plates glanced off Hermione’s shoulder and Draco watched her nearly crumble. He remembered wanting to grab the waiter by the collar for it. And her date, of course, rambled on about war bonds or something equally tedious. Pansy arrived, regarded Hermione with undue malice, and sat across the table from him with a story about the worst cab ride of her life. Draco didn’t hear her. He watched Hermione disintegrate slowly, until she fell out of her chair and hit her head. The seizure took hold and Draco was out of his chair, shoving waiters aside and slipping Hermione’s jacket beneath her head. He knew not to try to touch her but when it looked like the seizing was subsiding, he grasped her arms. The restaurant was silent except for his low and insistent reassurances. He ordered a man to stop gaping and call an ambulance. Then she stopped, and he breathed. His stomach was in his throat until she opened her eyes.

“You fell out of your chair and began convulsing. I put your jacket under your head so you wouldn’t hit it a second time, some guy called the ambulance, I turned you on your side so you wouldn’t choke.” A gross over-simplification, but true.

“Thank you,” she said. She reached a hand up to brush her hair from her face, but her hand was shaking and she retracted it quickly. Draco wordlessly helped her pull her hair away from her face and up, into a large clump on top of her head.

She smiled weakly and he nodded. “So,” Hermione said, “what do you do these days?”

“I’m a barrister,” Draco said. Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Easier than trying to get placed through the Ministry. Less complicated.”

“Surely they wouldn’t… I mean--after all this time--”

Draco put his hand up. “I applied. I was rejected.” He stood and moved back to his chair. Hermione consider him as he moved. “And you?”

She shook her head. “I was training with St. Mungo’s.”

“Was? You’re not anymore?”

“No,” she sighed. “It was frankly quite horrible. To see people injured from hexes and spells and charms and potions… it seemed like a place that would swallow me up. I’d never be happy.”

“And now?” Draco put his feet up on the edge of her bed.

“I’m writing incident reports on wizarding sightings in muggle London.”

“Merlin, that sounds boring,” he said.

“It is. And it’s not what I want to be doing--actually, I don’t know what I want, but it isn’t that.”

“You don’t know? The great Hermione Granger does not know? Someone call the Daily Prophet!” Draco exclaimed. 

“Shhhh!” Hermione laughed. 

“What would you do if you could do anything?” he asked.

Hermione closed her eyes for a long time.

“Read books, gather information. Expand my knowledge.”

“So be a librarian,” Draco suggested.

“I want to read the books, not just dust and shelve them for other people to enjoy.”

“Professor?”

“Turned that one down,” she said. It was Draco’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “McGonagall offered as soon as she heard that I left St. Mungo’s. But I don’t think I can go back there, after what we saw.” 

Draco knew what she meant. Hogwarts was tainted forever by the deaths of their classmates… and many of their personal friends. He didn’t feel at home there any more than she did. Even if he had been asked to fill the Dark Arts position, he wouldn’t have taken the job. That was a penance he would leave to Potter or another Hogwarts darling. Last he heard, it was Weasley who was vying for the position… a prospect that was both amusing and confusing.

“I’d like to be a mother someday, I think,” Hermione said. It was far from the only thing she wanted out of life, but it was one of the constants.

“Really?”

“Mmm. I love children. Every time I see a baby in the street, I want to cry. It’s not that I’m dying to have them right this second, but I know it’s something I want eventually. Sounds silly when I say it.” She smiled at the thought, however. Draco shook his head politely, though he had no worthwhile commentary to offer on Hermione’s potential as a mother.

“Do you want to have children?” she asked.

Draco looked down at his hands. “I don’t know. I might make a horrible father.”

“That isn’t true,” Hermione said. 

“How can you know that?” he asked, crossing his arms. “After my upbringing…”

“The fact that you’re aware of it means you’ll be a far better father than your own was… I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

“My father was deplorable,” Draco agreed. “I am thankful that, if I do have children, they will never know him.”

They sat in silence, then. There was so much to be said between them, to make up for lost time and years of competing… but neither of them really felt it needed saying. Not tonight, anyway. Maybe never. 

“Draco?” she whispered, when he thought she was already asleep.

“Hermione?” he replied, standing.

“May I ask for a strange favor?” 

“Certainly. Do you want me to call the nurse?”

“Not that kind of favor. Can you please sit here?” she patted the side of her bed where he had helped her with her water earlier. 

Draco sat. Hermione took her blood pressure monitor off her finger and Draco set it on her side table. She leaned forward and folded herself against his chest, arms fully around his waist. Draco, though surprised, wrapped his arms around her immediately. A flood of emotions came over him. His eyes welled up so fast, he couldn’t see. Her thankful embrace felt more like forgiveness… something he would never have dreamed was possible in order to hope for it. If he could make amends to just one person, however, he would have chosen her.

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

“I’ll have to leave in the morning,” he said. Hermione pulled away and nodded, averting her eyes.

“I get to go home tomorrow, anyway.”

“Supposing you don’t have a concussion. Let me look at your eyes.” Draco grasped her face in both hands and studied her corneas. They matched at least, so chances were good that she wasn’t concussed. Hermione shivered. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Just cold.” 

“Hold that thought.” Draco stood and went to the door, opening it. “Nurse? May we have a few more blankets?”

The nurse said something unintelligible and then Draco shut the door. “She’ll bring a few.”

“Thank you,” Hermione yawned. Once she was snuggled under several more blankets, and thoroughly exhausted, she drifted to sleep. Draco watched over her for a while, every twitch preparing him for another seizure. But she slept relatively peacefully, for a while. The first two-hour stretch was uneventful, but once they woke her back up, Hermione couldn’t go back to sleep. They offered her something to help her sleep, the name of which Draco couldn’t pronounce, but before he could offer his opinion, Hermione gently refused.

And then the nurse grilled her about her sleeping habits. She didn’t sleep much at all, which she postulated had something to do with chronic pain in her joints or Insomnia… or both. The nurse finally deduced that Hermione was in pain at that moment, a fact that she was trying to conceal, either from embarrassment or to appear strong. Draco figured it had something to do with the first thing, so he excused himself to hunt down a cup of tea--and one for Hermione. If she wasn’t going to sleep, they might as well drink tea. 

Draco wandered around the halls of the quiet muggle hospital. There were far more machines there than in St. Mungo’s, which made him uneasy. What machine could replace a healing potion or spell? Whatever was wrong with Hermione, outside of having had a seizure in the middle of a restaurant, he was convinced it could be solved with the right magical care. Though, considering her history with St. Mungos, he imagined it would be impossible to convince Hermione to go there instead. He would have to content himself--no. He stopped. This wasn’t about him. He chose to be there for her, and he was the disposable part of the equation. She could certainly heal without him, or his low opinion of muggle medicine. He turned on his heel, feeling at once like a nuisance and bully for forcing his way into the ambulance and hanging around late into the night. Surely, she didn’t want him there, not really. He had been truly horrid to her in their mutual past, a fact she was not likely to overlook. She must just be too kind to ask him to leave. With the exception of punching him in the face that time, she had never reciprocated his malice. She had never done anything else to him. Except hug him. Draco’s arms got goosebumps as he thought about it. 

He had things to do, including prepare his argument for a major murder case, draw together the final papers for the donation of Malfoy Manor to the Ministry for Historical Preservation, find just the right couch for his new flat… trivialities compared to finding a cup of tea for Hermione Granger at midnight. 

Draco suddenly wondered if someone needed to know where Hermione was… did she have a flatmate waiting for her at home? Perhaps he had better get ahold of Potter. 

He pulled aside a nurse to order a cup of tea brought to Hermione, and then found his way out of the labyrinth that was the muggle hospital.

***

“Here, sweetie, from your friend,” the nurse set a cup of tea on Hermione’s bedside.

“Where has he gone?” Hermione asked. The nurse shrugged.

“He got in the lift, he was mumbling something about a potter. Perhaps he’s gone off to find you some flowers!” the nurse said cheerily, departing Hermione’s room. Hermione doubted that Draco was off buying her daisies. The more likely explanation was that he had gone to find Harry… now THAT would be an interesting conversation. Gone to the restaurant with Gary, left with Draco. Nevermind the whole seizure thing… it did look strange, no matter how you considered it. Her childhood tormentor had climbed into an ambulance with her to make sure she was all right. And then stayed with her at the hospital. And she had hugged him. And then he ordered her some tea.

This was either the strangest dream she’d ever had… or the strangest reality she would have to face in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco braves the Ministry for the first time in nearly a decade. Hermione goes back to work.

“Hi sweetie,” a soft voice said, as Hermione blinked blearily. Ginny was standing over her with a grin on her face and a cup of tea in hand.

“Hi,” Hermione smiled, stretching. “Welcome to my boudoir.”

“Fancy digs you’ve got here,” Harry said. He arose from a small chair in the corner.

“Only the best, for the princess,” Ginny said. She brushed a few hairs away from Hermione’s forehead. “How are you feeling?”

Hermione took inventory of her body. She hurt. All over. Her head was throbbing. But she wasn’t quite so sad as usual.

“I’m all right,” Hermione said. “How did you find out I was here?”

Ginny and Harry exchanged a look. “A rather stoic blond apparated directly into our living room,” Ginny said. “I imagine this is his?” She held up the impeccable black jacket, which had been draped over the chair beside her bed. Hermione blushed and nodded.

“How did Malfoy end up in your boudoir?” Ginny asked, cheekily. Harry shot her a warning look.

“He was at the restaurant that I went to with Gary,” Hermione said. “Apparently Gary bailed as soon as I fell out of my chair, and Draco had an ambulance summoned.”

“And came with you,” Harry finished for her.

“And he came with me.”

“Aha. So… what was that like?” Ginny asked.

“It was fine,” Hermione said.

“Oh come on!” Ginny sat on the edge of the bed. “Draco Malfoy was here, with you, at the hospital… that isn’t ‘fine’, that is abnormal! Does he have a brain tumor?”

“A guilty conscience more like,” Harry mumbled.

Hermione sighed. “I think Harry’s theory is more plausible. But he was kind. He helped me fill out all my paperwork, he got me more blankets, and a cup of tea. It was… fine.”

“Inoperable brain tumor it is,” Ginny declared. “And he left his pretty boy coat here. Oh Merlin!” Ginny showed the inside of the jacket. “The tag says his name! Like, where Madam Malkin puts her designer tag… but it says ‘Draco Malfoy’ in fancy letters. How much do you think this cost him?”

“More than a firebolt and less than a treehouse model of Hogwarts made out of rubies,” Harry said. “The nurse mentioned coming to check on you once you woke up. They are going to send you home, they just have to check you over.”

Hermione nodded. Home, to her tiny flat and no one to order her tea.

“Do you want to come to ours?” Ginny asked, watching Hermione’s eyes glaze over. “I won’t baby you, but I might make you knit baby booties with me.”

Harry put his arm around his wife. “We’re happy to have you, if you want.”

Hermione strongly considered the offer. She wouldn’t be alone. But she also might be forced to talk about her feelings, a subject that, despite feeling better, she wasn’t prepared to touch. In all truth, she preferred to go home to her empty flat. At least nobody made her talk there, or asked her why she had so many empty wine bottles lined up on her kitchen table.

“Thank you, but I’d like to go home. Harry, do you think I might get the day off tomorrow to find my head?”

Harry winced. He and Ginny switched places so he could sit and grasp Hermione’s hand. “‘Mione, Shacklebolt has asked me to replace you.”

Hermione closed her eyes. “Oh. I see.”

“But I’m not going to.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped open. “You’re not.”

“No. But I can’t give you the day off if we’re going to convince Shacklebolt that you can do the job better than anyone he can think of. I know you’ve been having a hard time, and you haven’t wanted to talk about it. That is okay. But now is the time to push through it and find your way again.”

Hermione took his hand and a deep breath.

“Okay. I’ll push through.”

***

Walking through the Ministry, he half expected to be struck down dead by… anyone, really. He expected glares and whispers and nonverbal hexes--but all he got was strange looks and a few gasps. Not as bad as he thought. Perhaps it was the bouquet of peonies that he carried awkwardly under one arm, which drew the most attention. Peonies for healing. It had taken him a lot of research to find a flower that couldn’t be misconstrued as any kind of declaration. He just wanted to make sure she was all right. The fact that she was back at work the day after being released from the hospital was… troubling. Harry hadn’t seen her convulsing, and Draco was convinced Harry knew nothing of Hermione’s chronic pain, insomnia, or depression. The fact that Draco was privy to that information felt like an invasion of Hermione’s privacy. So here he was, back in wizarding London for the first time in four years, with a bouquet of flowers. In the Ministry of Magic.

Phew. Draco took a deep breath as the lift reached the right floor.

The aghast muttering began as he crossed the threshold of the Ministry for Muggle Affairs. He reminded himself to have a pleasant look on his face, for what that was worth.

“May I help you?” the receptionist peeped as he stepped up to the desk. A group of witches tittered when he ran a hand through his too-long hair.

“I have business with Hermione Granger,” he said evenly, clearing his throat.

“Down the hall to your right. Oh! Wait, she’s been moved. Down the hall, your third left, mister…” 

“Thank you,” he said, ignoring her request for his name. If she was unsure of his identity, it would buy him at least two minutes before Rita Skeeter got wind that he was back.

Oh… this was a horrid idea.

Draco walked with his hands behind his back, partially to conceal the flowers and also to try to appear nonchalant. He did not succeed in either endeavor, instead looking very uncomfortable and nervous. He chose a less extravagant outfit for this casual visit, opting for a simple black button down shirt and black slacks, a look which often had older muggles (particularly ancient looking women) mistaking him for a minister. Which was actually quite amusing to him. He had taken to playing along with the assumption, and bowing when they said, “bless you.” Perhaps it was a way to atone in some small way… to be seen by strangers as a figure of good. To be seen as good.

“Malfoy.”

He jolted back to earth. Harry Potter was leaning against the wall, smirking. Draco imagined he looked quite foolish, standing stock still in the middle of the hallway, clutching flowers behind his back and smiling.

“Potter,” he said, clearing his throat. The infamous Malfoy flush began to creep into his face, an embarrassing condition which left him with pink cheeks--and the sweats, if he allowed himself to become truly mortified.

“Are those for me? How thoughtful.” Harry gestured to the poorly hidden flowers.

“Ah… no. Granger.”

“She’s got her head in a book,” Harry said, as if to insinuate she was going to be unavailable for the rest of the year.

“I won’t be long. Just checking in. I am surprised that her superiors allowed her to return to work so soon.” Draco kicked the floor, uncharacteristically bashful of a sudden. He had not thought through anything about visiting Hermione--not who she worked with, not who he might run in to, not how he might have to explain himself… why he would have a reason to check on her after five years of not having any contact with her… Regret was potent.

“I am the head of her department, Malfoy. And we made the decision to have her return in order to save her from being let go.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Her visit to the hospital was the last of her troubles, of late. That’s all I will say.” Harry looked him over pointedly. “She doesn’t need any more trouble.”

“And I’m not here to bring it,” Draco said, frustration mounting. “But you didn’t see--” He broke off. A recount of Hermione’s accident would be counter productive. If only he had just sent the flowers by post. “Give these to her, will you?”

Draco thrust the bouquet into Harry’s hand, turned on his heel, and shoved his hands into his pockets. He couldn’t make his way to the lift fast enough.

“Malfoy!” Harry called, hastening after him. He grabbed the gate before Draco could close it and escape. The sweats were threatening Draco’s brow. For once, he looked almost pitiful.

“Thank you for helping her,” Harry said. “I’m glad you were there. Merlin, who knows what would have happened if she had been alone.” Harry stuck his hand out. Draco took it.

“Where’s Weasley?” Draco asked simply, and Harry released his hand.

“Idiot,” Harry replied. He stepped back and held up his hand in farewell.

Draco fled the Ministry and escaped back into muggle London, where old ladies called him Minister and nobody knew his name. He tore a hole in his boot attempting to make it onto a departing subway car, and nobody glared at him. Nobody even spoke to him or regarded him longer than a curt nod. There was something to this simple non-magical life, where Draco Malfoy was afforded the respect of gentlemen, and the scorn of none.

***

Hermione stared at the flowers in Harry’s hand. His lips were moving, but all she had heard was “from that git, Malfoy.” And then the rest was silence. Peonies, for healing. A calculated but wise choice. She wondered if he had picked them out himself. Of course he had… the chances of Draco asking one of his friends to help pick out flowers for her--well, it was just as likely as Hermione asking Ron to get back together. Not a chance in hell.

“I’ll take them,” she squeaked out. She had clearly interrupted Harry, but he just shook his head and closed his mouth, handing the bouquet over. “I’ll have that report for you in ten minutes, Harry.”

He saluted, sighed, and retreated to his office.

Hermione dumped the contents of her quill holder out on her desk and filled the little stone cup with water from the glass Harry had fetched for her earlier. She balanced the too-tall bouquet inside the makeshift vase and leaned it against the partition, which separated her work space from her neighbor. With a simple charm, she could make certain the huge blooms didn’t wilt any time soon.

_Malfoy-_

_Thanks for the peonies. And such._

_Regards,_

_H. Granger_

She scrawled the note on the nearest scrap of paper and disapparated the thing with a flick of her wand. Only to realize that she had sent the note on the first page of her soon-to-be-tardy report. She sighed and rested her forehead on her arms.

With a pop, the page reemerged… with a companion note.

_Hermione,_

_Thought this looked important. I apologize for not delivering the flowers in person. Muggle London is my haunt these days. You understand._

_Draco_

She did. But for now, she needed to copy the first page of her report onto a fresh sheet of parchment, instead of delivering it to Harry with her and Malfoy’s notes. More professional that way. Less complicated.

Report in hand, Hermione dropped it on Harry’s desk and excused herself for lunch. Before she made her escape, Hermione scrawled another note and sent it off, before her nerves could get the better of her. As it so happened, Muggle London was an alluring oasis after a day of pretending she was ready to work again.

Traversing the tiles of the Ministry lobby, she was reminded how many times she had taken that walk in the past five years. Never once had she noticed the dragon scale tiles placed perfectly in the center of every second square. She looked up. Nor had she noticed the way the cornices were carved into the busts of founding wizards, who seemed to be at once carrying the weight of an imperfect government. Neither had she noticed the way people skirted around her, stepping out of her way as if afraid to be near her. Hermione had never once noticed how… isolated she felt.

She halted, beneath the arches of ancient marble, in the midst of a sea of witches and wizards who seemed to want nothing to do with her. And she laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is about to escape into uncharted waters... and there's a Malfoy there waiting.


	3. Chapter3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco cracks. Hermione quits.

He waited in the corner booth for what felt like eons. Every brown haired woman who even got near the restaurant had his palms sweating. Why the devil was he so nervous? It was just lunch. All she had mentioned was wanting to thank him in person. She suggested the place, an unassuming sandwich shop just outside Covent Garden, and had merely mentioned she would be going there for lunch… he was welcome to join her, but it wasn’t a confirmed meeting. So really, he could disappear and she would never know that he had been there. She would just assume that he was busy or didn’t want to see her, which would be half true. He was not terribly busy, as the most important case of his career had been lately postponed. He also felt that he'd be better off never seeing her again... But curiosity got the best of him.

She was grinning when she sat down across from him.

“‘lo, Granger,” he said quietly, nodding to her.

“Would you mind if we took it to go and walked around instead? I can’t sit still right now,” she suggested, thumbing over her shoulder.

“I don’t have too long, but I don’t mind.” He nodded.

She smiled again and jumped up, practically flying over to the counter to choose a sandwich from the cooler. She was bouncing as she handed the cashier a few muggle notes. It was then that Draco realized he had left his wallet inside his jacket, which he had left on the chair beside her hospital bed. He silently cursed. That blasted jacket.

Which was tucked over her arm.

“Convenient,” he mumbled. “Granger, I believe that is my coat, is it not?”

“Oh! Yes, here.” She handed it over. “I meant to send it to you once I got back, but I didn’t know where to find you, and I can’t send things from my apartment.” She made wings with her hands to insinuate an owl. “Too conspicuous.”

“You live in Mug--in London proper?” he asked, pointing to a turkey sandwich in the cooler. He fished proper change from his wallet and gestured for her to lead them out of the shop. He wondered if he shouldn’t have offered to pay for her sandwich, but it was too late now.

Hermione nodded, taking a bite of her sandwich. “Not far,” she said. “Easier.”

“Easier,” he echoed. He pocketed his sandwich and followed her lead. She pointed them in the direction of the Covent Garden outdoor market, a labyrinth of stalls, which bore wares which Draco thought tedious and over-priced. But it wasn’t the Ministry of Magic, and nobody was staring at them or whispering, and that was something.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she said brightly, fingering the fringe of a hand-painted silk scarf.

“Welcome,” he replied. She looked up at him.

“Peonies for healing.”

“Mm.”

They wove through the stalls, saying nothing to one another. Draco didn’t know how to make conversation with this incidental witch… he couldn’t help but feel the burden of her invitation, frustrated with her for not realizing that he really couldn’t afford to be seen with her. He shouldn’t even be near her. His father would have had a heart attack, had he been living. People would stop speaking to her.

“Draco?”

“Hmm?” He looked up and Hermione was pointing to a vendor offering hot spiced cider.

“I was saying that I’m awfully cold now that the adrenaline has worn off. Would you like some cider?” she asked. He nodded, reaching for his wallet. She stayed his hand by laying her own on his arm. “It’s my treat.”

She ordered two cups from the jolly looking woman, while Draco waited for her awkwardly, canting between his feet and turning slightly in an attempt to make himself less uncomfortable. It didn’t work, and when Hermione held out the cup intended for him, he accidentally knocked it and spilled the scalding liquid down his own sleeve.

“Oh MERLIN!” He bellowed, dropping his jacket and waving his arm. He winced and his whole arm tingled.

“I’m so sorry!” Hermione peeped, gathering up his coat and leading him to a nearby bench. She pulled him to sit and went to work on his sleeve, rolling it up his arm so she could inspect it. By the time both of her tiny hands were on his skin, one cupped directly over his ugly mark, and the other tracing the reddened surface lightly, Draco had mostly forgotten all about it. Instead, his attention was focused on the exposed, proverbial black spot. And how Hermione hadn’t noticed it.

“It doesn’t look so bad, at least,” she said, bending his elbow to get a better look. “How does it feel now?”

“I think I was more surprised than anything. It doesn’t hurt much.”

She narrowed her eyes in disbelief. “You’d better put this on it anyway.” She dug into her purse and retrieved a tiny bottle of salve. Rather than handing it to him, she uncorked it and took to applying it herself. Draco sat in defeat as she handled his arm. Her concentrated face, tongue peeking out… it was amusing. Her fingers smoothed over the snake’s eyes imprinted in his skin.

“Not so painful now, is it?”

What, being imprinted with the icon of the worst wizard who ever lived?

Speaking to her after so many years spent torturing her--after watching her get tortured in his house?

A mild burn caused by his own clumsiness was nothing.

“No.” He rolled down his sleeve and buttoned it. “Thanks.”

She smiled for the umteenth time and he couldn’t help but smirk himself. It was contagious.

“I suppose you have to be getting back,” he said, pulling his jacket on. She shook her head.

“I knew you weren’t listening earlier,” she said lightly, less accusation and more tease.

He looked down in embarrassment. “I’ve been preoccupied.”

“No matter,” she said. “I’ve quit the Ministry.”

He looked up at her, shock evident on his face. “Since when?”

“Since right after I sent you the last note. Harry’s bringing my things around tonight.” She sipped her cider and then laughed. “I had better find a cheaper place to live!”

“Why did you quit?” he asked.

“Because I have been depressed and so miserable that I’ve been a zombie. You saw what that lead to,” she said, looking down at her cup. “And there I was, standing in the middle of the Ministry and people were actually trying to avoid me. I was only in the hospital yesterday, I’m so exhausted that I could sleep for days, and my hands haven’t stopped hurting in months… except, oddly, they don’t hurt right now. Is that a good enough reason?” She studied him out of the corner of her eye.

“No glory in heroics, is there?” he asked.

Hermione considered the question. He seemed honestly surprised by her answer, and not as if he was goading her for an inflammatory reaction. She reacted in kind.

“It’s strange. Harry killed the most evil wizard that has ever lived, and he’s not the Minister of Magic or the Headmaster at Hogwarts, he’s the head of the Muggle Affairs department. Ron is a stay-at-home father. And I’m a basketcase. I wasn’t expecting glory, but I certainly wasn’t expecting to feel so lonely. Apparently there’s a rumor going around the department that I was hospitalized for a breakdown. With the way things were headed, it might as well be true.”

“Were things really so bad?” Draco asked gently, despite finding himself growing ever-angry.

“Worse,” she said. She suddenly stood and faced him. “Can I ask you a question?”

"If you must," he said. He suddenly dreaded giving her permission. What if she asked him what he was thinking just then? Then, he'd be forced to be honest about the fact that he kind of wanted to vomit. And that his lungs refused to fill up more than half way so he was on the edge of panic.

She sat back against the bench.

"Do you think we were sort of... brainwashed into thinking that muggles are total idiots? Because they're not. They read their newspapers with pictures that don't move, and they buy expensive mobiles and they get upset about nothing. Nothing! They get upset because the bananas are bruised at Tescos! But they aren't idiots. They just don't know. That it could be worse. Even being raised by them, I feel like I’ve spent the past ten years trying to remind myself that non-magical persons aren’t worthless." She blinked up at him and he laughed, in surprise.

“I suppose we were brainwashed. Me more than you, I think. To believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that anything borne from the muggle world is… well, you know.” He cleared his throat.

She paled. “Oh, Merlin.”

“No, no, it’s all right,” he said, gently. “You’re right. As always.”

He looked down at his jacket sleeve, which had become slightly damp, thanks to the spilled cider. He was ashamed of himself, for words and deeds that he could never undo. It would probably always be his lot, to feel the impossible weight of a childhood spent tormenting others. He would never escape that guilt. It was only a matter of time before she brought it up again… not that he blamed her. That was probably how she remembered him best. A Deatheater-heir with a shit-eating grin. What a waste of energy. A waste of space. When he glanced back up at her again, she had a miserable look on her face, as if she suddenly remembered that he was awful. She tucked her hair behind her ears and stood up.

“I had better go,” She said. She did not look at him.

He nodded once. He watched her retreat through the stalls, with barking vendors peddling sparkling trinkets. She was better off without him.

 

***

 

Head in hands, Draco waited to be called into the office. The receptionist had mentioned that Dr. Jones was running nearly thirty minutes behind schedule, but he didn’t care. He’d wait as long as it took. He hadn’t met with Dr. Jones in months, which he had merely attributed to a busy time in his career as a barrister. If he was being truly honest with himself, he was just tired of scraping old wounds, session after session. And it was tiresome hiding his identity as a wizard, while simultaneously working through deeply-seeded issues, without wanting to absolutely throttle the good doctor. She was nice, but somewhat condescending. He had never been one for a heart-to-heart.

The door opened. “Mr. Malfoy.” Dr. Jones stepped out and smiled, beckoning him into her office.

“Ah.” He followed her inside and took a seat in a hard chair. The office was sterile and modern, but it had good light.

“What would you like to talk about?” Dr. Jones asked. She sat behind her desk and folded her hands. She rarely took notes, which bothered Draco. The least she could do was note down the highlights of his latest crisis.

He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve become reacquainted with someone from my past.”

“A past lover?”

Draco scoffed. “Hardly. A girl from primary school. She was… one of my… that is, I frequently… tormented her.”

“Are you feeling guilty about how you treated her in the past?”

That was the understatement of the century.

“She seems to have forgotten entirely.”

“Maybe the past has become distorted in your memory--”

Draco stood and crossed his arms, pacing to the window. “It’s burned into my mind.”

“Do you want to talk about any specific events?” Dr. Jones fished a pencil from her drawer and waited for him to gather his thoughts.

“You remember the… cult my parents were part of.”

“Mm.”

“My mother’s sister was one of the highest-level members. She was the only person who got close to our leader, enough to influence him. At one point, my aunt held three of my schoolmates captive in our basement.” Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. When he said it like that, it didn’t sound quite so horrid. When Bellatrix was simply a zealot… it absolved her of a thousand unforgivable deeds. But not this one.

“This girl--Hermione is her name--was one of the children my aunt kept hostage.”

Dr. Jones was quiet. That was her most common response when he laid really heavy emotions onto her desk. She took it in without reflecting that pain back on him. She nodded for him to continue.

“But before all of that, I spent years bullying her to tears at school,” he said, absently. “I called her names I cannot take back. And when my aunt took her hostage, I was forced to watch as she carved one of those heinous names into Hermione’s skin with a knife. She still has a scar to prove it.” Draco fought back unbidden tears of anger. “I don’t deserve this chance. But she fell back into my life so suddenly.”

“How so?”

He cleared his throat. “We happened to be in the same restaurant two nights ago. She had a seizure and I wound up sitting beside her at the hospital, helping her fill out the intake paperwork. And she didn’t once look at me with the hatred I used to see in her eyes.”

Dr. Jones sat back in her chair and looked over her sparse notes. “Maybe seeing her hurt again triggered that traumatic response.”

“And for once, it wasn’t my fault,” he said, with a laugh. He cringed.

“You’re very hard on yourself.”

“Yes, well. We’ve established that I’m a horrible person, so I’m just being realistic.”

She never addressed his self-deprecating comments. Dr. Jones was proficient at not engaging his knack for tearing himself down.

“Have you spoken with her about what happened in the past?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know how to begin. ‘Hullo, Hermione. Remember that time my aunt tortured you?”

“Sounds like you want her to run. You think she has a reason to hate you, so you’re writing yourself off before she has the chance to make up her mind.”

He slammed his hands down on her desk. “Don’t you get it? She has a million reasons to hate me! I should have run right out of that restaurant the second I saw her, and saved us both.” He collapsed into the chair beside the desk. A nasty ache had settled behind his eyes. When he ventured a glance at Dr. Jones, her mouth was pressed into a tight line.

“I am sorry. It all feels impossible. I’m right back to where I started.”

Dr. Jones leaned forward and clasped her fingers together. “I think we should end for the day, Draco. I don’t believe you need be prodded any further.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

“I want to see you next week, but in the meantime… talk to Hermione. Even if you talk about the weather. Give yourself that chance. Do you think you can do that?”

About as easily as he could tame a hippogriff… and Buckbeak could speak to his skills in that department.

“I will try.” He sighed for the millionth time.

“That’s all I ask,” Dr. Jones said. She smiled. “Before you go, have you had any developments in your murder case?”

“Nothing I can speak of outside the courtroom. Except that the judge has granted a three month stay. So I have three months to twiddle my thumbs.” Draco was not sorry about the judge’s decision. The criminal had attempted to break out of his cell, which made Draco’s chances of winning the case much higher. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t have to set foot in a courtroom for at least three more months, or go near the prison, or wear a bloody suit.

“Sounds like a great opportunity to visit the seaside, take in some salty air, and forgive yourself.” Dr. Jones stood and motioned for him to follow.

“Is that your prescription?” he asked, trailing behind.

“If you like,” she said. “If that means you’ll actually go.”

He bowed ever-so-slightly. She nodded and let him out of her office, closing the door again once he left.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Granger has put a rather large dent in his piece of mind... the only thing for it is a trip to the sea with the siren herself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco invites Hermione to his seaside cottage for a weekend. Things go horribly wrong, are generally terribly awkward, and steadily get worse… especially when firewhiskey is involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may seem abrupt and slightly out of character the way they began their re-acquaintance, but remember: we're dealing with two people with serious skeletons in their closets, not the least of which is their terrible shared past. With both of them in such fragile states, it's not surprising their pleasantries don't last long. Now that they've broken, we'll see how they heal.

_Miss Granger,_

_I have decided to go away for the weekend. Please don’t mistake my meaning for an uncouth offer; I thought perhaps you might like to get away from town for a few days. I cannot think what might tempt you to do so, but against my better judgment, I think it might do us both good to become better acquainted… such as it is, I have little in the way of friendship currency._

_There is a large bedroom that could be yours for the whole weekend if you like, and you wouldn’t even have to see me. We would have to bring our own food, as I’m not there often enough to keep the place stocked. I would be happy to make accommodations ready, however, if you tell me what sort of food you like. Perhaps a pheasant or grouse._

_Please do let me know if you think you might like to come along. Did I mention it’s on the coast?_

_Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy_

 

She stared down at the note. She re-read it. She stood, paced the room, and re-read it again.

Draco Malfoy wanted to take her to the sea.

He had not proposed the trip as some great romantic escapade, and the letter read too formal to be any kind of declaration (not that she wanted or expected such a thing). But it was too outlandish of a request to be a peace offering, and too far a distance to be mere generosity. It was an invitation extended as if to say:

I owe you.

But in her mind, he owed her nothing. If anything, she owed him her utmost gratitude for what happened in the restaurant. She could have swallowed her tongue and choked to death. She could have smashed her head open in the midst of convulsing. He had, point in fact, saved her life.

There was the whole matter of the scar on her arm. And years of increasingly horrid bullying back at Hogwarts, but they had been young children… and he had been put through horrors, the extent of which she would never fully know. To blame a child for their mistakes of the past was to rob them of a chance at forgiveness. Her hatred of him had melted long ago. Now, he was an indecipherable anomaly. It could perhaps be said that he was equally frustrating now as he was a child, however different the cause.

She placed the last book inside the very last box and taped it shut. Every single one of her belongings was packed into cardboard. If she must move out of her flat, at least she had time to do so, now that she was unemployed. And the means too, with Harry and Ginny helping--or at least, Harry lifting boxes, and Ginny bossing everyone around, as had occurred almost the entire day prior. When they had departed for the evening, she was glad to be rid of them, if only for a chance to figure out whether or not she should go to the sea with Draco Malfoy.

What was it that Jane Austen said about the sea?

_Sea air was healing, softening, relaxing -- fortifying and bracing -- seemingly just as was wanted -- sometimes one, sometimes the other._

She needed to heal. From everything. There were too many gaping wounds in her delicate resolve. Besides, nothing else had worked. No amount of self-pity could make her feel whole again. Why not try a weekend by the sea?

Her hands prickled at the thought of being truly alone with Draco, but what did she know about him, really? Nothing about his life as a grown man. If she were to spend a weekend away with him, she would certainly come to know him much better, no matter the true nature of his invitation. And she could always apparate away. If she was really desperate, she could hex his bollocks off, wandlessly and wordlessly. If he really was a docile barrister, now, she had nothing to fear but becoming extremely bored with his company. And he most certainly was nothing like his younger self, or he wouldn’t have come to her rescue.

She really had nothing to lose.

Hermione pulled a quill from the box that held the contents of her desk drawers, and scrawled a note on a fresh piece of parchment. It read thus:

 

_Draco,_

_Thank you for your generous invitation. I feel as though a weekend by the sea would be a welcome respite after this tiring week. I must admit my puzzlement at the nature of your invitation, but it is no matter. I will pack two loaves of brown bread, butter, oatmeal, one head of lettuce, and a small wheel of brie. As I am a vegetarian, I will not require any pheasant or grouse (but thank you for the offer)._

_Where shall we meet? I can be ready by 10 o’clock on Friday morning (tomorrow, that is)._

_Regards,_

_Hermione Granger_

 

***

 

They met in the alley of a pub equi-distant from their two flats. He was actually wearing color for once, instead of his usual black; a blue jacket and brown khaki pants, plus some loafers that looked well suited for the deck of a ship. What a strange look for him! He might as well have been a member of the Eaton College rowing team. This was not the precisely-tailored gothic Malfoy with whom she was familiar.

Conversely, Hermione opted for soft cotton layers, which floated away from her body, deliberately chosen in order to send no messages of romantic intent. Her pack was almost as large as she was, and Draco had to suppress a laugh when he saw her.

They arrived at the seaside cottage by portkey; Draco had chosen a conch shell the size of his head to be their harbinger. It was not a cozy cottage as she had imagined. Of course not, a Malfoy owned it. It was twice the size of her childhood home, and three times as imposing, with a great sloping roof and stone lions guarding the front door. Ironic, for a Slytherin. She did not feel welcomed by its dark facade.

But the inside of the cottage was filled with soft textures; the carpets were well-worn and plush, while the stones beneath were gently indented with the trails of foot patterns. The wood panels on the walls gave warmth to the rooms that clearly hadn’t been used in years. Hermione wondered if the cottage had been visited since Draco’s father had died.

He spoke to her very little, and of things innocuous. The weather, the tide, which fireplace to light in order to warm the whole house in the mornings… nothing dangerous. He showed her to her room and then retreated into another corner of the house. There was scarcely a word spoken between them until the evening. It was awkward. And annoying. They were supposed to be getting to know each other better, not dancing around the gigantic elephant in the room. Or leaving the room entirely, as it were.

Upon separately deciding that their growling stomachs needed appeasement, they descended once more upon the kitchen.

They each prepared their own dinner plates, with their backs to each other, each deeply regretting agreeing to this weekend… but neither wanting to admit just how badly they wanted to run. Instead, they bumped elbows and generally got in each other’s way. And both downed several shots of firewhiskey when they thought the other wasn’t looking. With several ounces of liquid courage, Hermione wheeled on him.

“If things are going to be weird between us, we might as well just stuff our wands under our mattresses for the weekend. I’m afraid we’ll hex each other for breathing too loud!” She crossed her arms over her chest. It just sort of… came out, and she regretted it instantly.

Draco responded by huffing, dropping his plate down heavily on the counter, and storming off to his room.

“Git,” Hermione muttered, though she had no grounds for being frustrated with him. None at all. She was having a strange out-of-body experience, and all she wanted to do was just be angry. She felt like a child. It seemed like he brought it out in her, as if muscle memory forced her to be suddenly (and preemptively) upset at him… despite all evidence that he was not the boy who bullied her anymore.

She regretted drinking the firewhiskey. She hoped he would come back from his room so she could apologize. She blushed when he did.

He said nothing. He didn’t even look at her.

When they sat down to eat at opposite ends of a large marble table, Hermione watched as he stabbed every bite of his pheasant. He didn’t seem to be much enjoying it. She barely touched her salad.

Hermione sighed. Draco continued to massacre his food. She sighed again, and he raised an eyebrow, looking up at her.

“What are you sighing about?” he asked, a bit too forcefully.

“What the hell are we doing here?” she replied.

“I am wondering the same.” He dropped his fork onto his plate and sat back in his chair.

They glared at each other for a moment, but then his gaze softened abruptly and he looked away. “How easy it is to fall back into it,” he breathed.

She looked down at her hands.

“Do you ever feel like you’ve got to retrain yourself?” she asked.

He merely nodded.

They sat silently for a long time, until Hermione could no longer stand it. “Why don’t you hate me anymore?” she asked bluntly.

“Several hundred hours of therapy,” he replied, though she detected a tinge of regret. He sighed and rubbed his face. “You’re doing something to me, Granger. I don’t know how, but somehow you have undone nearly ten years of effort on my part to move on.”

“Yes, I have deliberately come for your sanity,” she crowed. “Nobody can influence you that way unless you let them--”

“Oh, so I deserve what happened to me?” he bellowed.

“I’m not saying that! You just don’t have the best track record--”

“Don’t you hear yourself? I’ve worked very hard to move past those things..” Draco crossed his arms.

“Maybe you should take that as a sign that you need to work harder, if it’s so easy for you to fall apart!” She stood.

“That’s rich, coming from the girl who just had a mental breakdown.” He stood and braced his hands on the table.

Hermione gasped and clenched her fists. She did not want to cry. She wanted to scream.

“You should have left me alone,” she whispered.

Draco froze. The arrow landed and he sagged under the weight of the insult. “We’re at each other’s throats, and for what? To see whose blood is thicker?” He scoffed. “I knew it was too good to hope… nevermind. I don’t regret helping you that day, though I’m sorry that you do. This was clearly a mistake.” Draco abandoned his plate and left for his room, shutting the door behind him.

Hot tears splashed her cheeks. She was livid with herself, for thinking for one second that he was a gentle savior of broken young women. She had built him up as a changed man, but he hadn’t changed, just suppressed the instinct inside to hate her. And all it took was a few short hours alone with her to remind him that she was worthy of his guile.

She knew she ought to leave immediately.

She cleaned the food from her plate over the sink and her tears co-mingled with the soapy water. She glanced back at his abandoned plate and her breath caught. She ought to clean it. It was the nice thing to do when one was a guest. Though, he might want it later, she thought. She put his plate in the ice box.

Her feet felt heavy as she shuffled back towards her room.

Why had she gotten angry with him?

Because things were awkward between them? What kind of reason was that? He had gone through the trouble to invite her to his beautiful cottage as a friendly gesture, to get to know her better… perhaps, in some small way, to repair some of the bad blood between them, in the only way he knew how. And it took just a few shots of firewhiskey to turn her into a petulant witch.

She had accused him of being easily influenced by Voldemort, by his father, by Bellatrix… she had accused him of being weak.

Hermione paused in front of his door.

She put her ear against the grain and listened. Nothing. He was probably asleep, or sulking, and either way, he probably wouldn’t want to be disturbed. She turned her head and rested her forehead on the cool wood. She sighed. She felt sobered by the thought that she had hurt him, by thoughtlessly throwing away all his obvious efforts for her own comfort… discomfort bred fear in her, though. Anything she couldn’t control was terrifying. Draco Malfoy was a skeleton in her closet, and he scared her. The thought of him being even halfway capable of the things his father did, or his aunt… it was in his blood. He scared her.

She slid down the door and sat with her back to it, for what felt like hours. It felt an impossible task, apologizing. But she must. For both their sakes. Even if nothing came of it, even if she did not feel absolved. He, too, had said hurtful things, but in her case, they were all true.

Maybe she just didn’t like hearing the truth when it came from him.

She knocked softly, and he didn’t answer. She pushed open the door slightly. Draco was slumped on the floor beside the bed, unmoving.

Hermione rushed in and knelt at his side. “Draco?” she breathed, shaking him.

He rolled away from her and sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. He moved as if he bones were made of glass.

“Let me go,” he murmured.

“I thought you were unconscious,” Hermione said, reaching for his back. “I’m sorry--”

He turned around quickly and leaned close to her face. “I’m asking you to free me,” he murmured. “Put an end to this.”

“I don’t know how.” She put her hands on his shoulders.  “You hate me. I shouldn’t have said those things. I shouldn’t have drank all that firewhiskey.”

“I can’t hate you, and that’s the problem,” he said gruffly, grabbing her wrist. “It would be easier if I could. Everything you said was right. Do something worse to me. Give me a reason to banish your name from my tongue.”

“You’re hurting me,” Hermione whispered. “Please let go.”

His grip softened immediately, and he cradled her wrist in his hands. Draco’s fingers grazed over the red indentations they had just left. This was familiar, this unbridled anger towards her. But he had never before hurt her with his hands. And that broke him most of all. He had used his own fingers to give her pain; not a spell, not his words, not his wand.

“I should not have invited you here.” He spoke through the threat of tears. “You have split me open.”

“I will leave before dawn,” she said. “I can see--oh, Draco.” Hermione sighed. Her eyes were trained on him as he brushed his lips against her wrist. “You cannot hurt me and try to heal yourself in the same breath.”

He closed his eyes. How he longed for the emptiness of his muggle life. He longed for dreamless sleep, for tasteless food, for an empty heart. At least when he was without feeling, he couldn’t do anyone else harm. Ten years worth of building a life without magic… all gone. Shattered, irreparably. How could he go on pretending like the new life he had built was anything but a charade?

It was as if two hands were pressing on the sides of his head. The ache settled into the base of his skull and pulled at his eyes. It wasn’t just the alcohol playing with his head; Draco was cognitive of real fear pooling inside his mind.

How familiar, to be afraid of himself again.

She sat back from him as he curled further in on himself. There was no person alive hurting more than Draco, that was clear. Pain was evident on his face. He brought a shaking hand up to his forehead. His fingers traveled his skin as if trying to read his face, but finding nothing familiar there except for lines of worry. He was very much in danger, that was plain. But he was not alone.

And she knew it wasn’t her job to save him, or to soothe him, but she, too, knew the darkest corners of shame. She knew how it rooted itself so deep in her spine that it became a virus of destructive thoughts. She knew that loneliness of blame. If she did nothing else for him, she would help him sleep that night.

“Here,” she whispered. She brought her hand up to meet his, where it rested on his brow. She clasped his fingers gently. He didn’t open his eyes, but he allowed her to massage small circles into his palm.

“You are safe,” Hermione said. She repeated her soft circles on his other hand, and then placed them both on his knees, palms skyward. “You have nothing to fear from me anymore.”

She scooted slightly closer and ghosted her hands up his arms. His shirt was slightly damp from a cold sweat, and it clung about his shoulders in a way that looked uncomfortable. She reached beyond him to his duffle bag, which was carelessly forgotten beneath the bed, and pulled out a grey flannel. He did not fight when she divested him of his damp shirt. It took a bit more effort on her part to pull his arms through the sleeves of the warm flannel, but once it was on, he took over for the buttons. She reasoned that if he could button a shirt, he must have calmed. He had been almost manic with fear. Desperate. Now, he looked as docile as a marshmallow.

Hermione wrapped a quilt around his shoulders, encouraging him to sit back against the bed frame. She said nothing, just stoked the fire. His eyes were cast downwards, open and black, but seeing nothing. If this was his rock-bottom… he was low indeed.

She helped him sip a glass of water, and toasted a slice of her brown bread over the fire. A weekend without wands was starting to seem like the best idea she had ever thought of, despite the horrid way she had proposed it. Out here, they could be broken. They were allowed to rely on nothing but their wits, instead of the convenience of magical intervention. There was no reminder of who they were back in the city. Just two people with more inner demons than most. To see him this way, though… she took no delight in it. He did not deserve any of her scorn. He deserved a chance at life, same as anyone, but he clearly didn’t see it that way. She wasn’t sure she could convince him that he mattered, but it was worth a try.

Draco accepted the warm slice of bread with indifference, but he allowed the crumbs to melt with the butter on his tongue. Eventually, when the slice was gone, he hummed in approval.

Hermione smiled slightly. “Mother always gave me warm bread and butter after a nightmare,” she said. “She said that warming your insides drove out all the nasty thoughts that created them in the first place.”

He looked up at her, as if she were the first ray of dawn.

He was afraid now to open his mouth, afraid of what words might stumble out and prick her once more. So he just shook his head in disbelief, reached out a hand for hers, and sharply inhaled when she took it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Heavy. Sorry not sorry, it's uber important that they hash out their issues, and fast. Now we will get to the rest of their weekend by the sea, when the healing begins.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starting fresh by the sea.

She was up with the sun. The gold light filled her room and she was reminded that there was nothing quite like coastal sunrises. When the sun rose on the coast, unencumbered by buildings or smog, it was an honest light. And this morning, as she peered out her window, the rising sun blessed a figure of a man, who sat a ways off at the edge of a small berm. Draco. His silhouette was surrounded in light. She turned over on her side. 

His shoulders were hunched, but he seemed to be sipping from a teacup. The steam curling around his face glowed in the new light. He had made it through the night. 

She had sat up with him until the embers in the fire were black, the night before. They had not spoken much after she gave him the bread, communicating instead through soft squeezing of clasped hands. She didn’t remember what his hand felt like in hers. She probably would have held it all night, though, had he needed it.

It wasn’t that Draco needed her. They had too many years behind them for that sort of attachment. But she had felt a kind of tension ease between them, once the dam broke. Now, it was all out there; they were both fighting the echoes of trauma. While she had ignored the pain until she broke, he had been fighting voraciously for some semblance of normalcy, and he deserved to feel like he wouldn’t have to fight her, too. Staying for the weekend meant finding a balance between them--something new. 

She had decided to stay when they mouthed ‘goodnight.’ If there was a chance to heal just one fraction of her heart, she had thought this might be it. With ample time to speak of the rotting past. 

There was at least one shared memory between them that festered the longer it went unresolved. A matter of that night in Malfoy Manner, when they both were helpless.

Hermione stretched and got out of bed. She twisted her hair up into a messy bun and slipped on her robe. Draco was still sitting out on the grassy berm just beyond the sand. She wondered if he liked oatmeal.

Waiting just outside her door was a tray, bearing an empty teacup and saucer, a full teapot, and a bowl of oatmeal.

***

He heard the back door latch, but he didn’t turn back to look at her. He pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his hands and shivered. Draco hadn’t thought through what to say to her. ‘Thank you’ seemed the wrong sentiment. He didn’t know how to express his gratitude that she had sat with him through his mania. So he made her breakfast, and hoped that expressed his thanks.

She sat beside him, all bundled in her plush robe. “Thank you for breakfast,” she said.

“I was up,” he said. He looked down at his empty tea cup and fiddled with the handle.

“Don’t boil it quite so long next time. It was a little burnt.”

He snapped his head up to look at her. She was smiling slightly. He shook his head.

“Know-it-all,” he murmured. But he couldn’t help a slight smile that tugged at his lips. He held out a hand to her, and she took it. The letters of her scar peeked out from beneath her robe. They sat there quietly, breathing in the healing sea air, and both trying to decide why it felt so safe to hold onto each other.

Draco couldn’t help but glance at her out of the corner of his eye. There were no rules here by the sea, for how they ought to behave… for how they should speak to each other and the like, so it was possible to make her breakfast or hold her hand without falling down a hole of guilt or something. If she were uncomfortable with it he would have respected her wishes. For now, though, for the rest of the weekend, they could explore what it meant to be acquainted with one another. If she wound up hating us guts by the end, he wouldn’t have to see her again. He hoped she wouldn’t.

“I know you want to look,” she peeped, pulling up her sleeve. He had been staring at her arm. He blushed.

“Morbid curiosity and such,” Draco said. He turned her arm over and placed it over his knee, to get a better look at the word emblazoned there. Then, he rolled up his own sleeve. He handed over his own marked limb for her to scrutinize. 

“I show you mine, you’ll show me yours?” she asked lightly. 

“Fair is fair.” He shivered when her fingers traced the skull.

“Does it ever hurt?” she asked. He shook his head.

“Yours?” 

She considered this. “I suppose not outright. Unless I dream about it and then I wake up to a dull ache.”

“Like a phantom pain, because it used to dog you,” he inferred. He ran the pad of his thumb over the word he had called her hundreds of times. 

“Yes, exactly,” Hermione said. She pulled her arm away and looked down at Draco’s arm where it rested on her knee. “Did they force you?” she asked, framing his dark mark between her hands.

He shook his head. 

She raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She had seen him without a shirt on the night before, she knew that wasn’t his only mark. She did suspect, however, that it all the other tattoos were not bestowed upon him by the cult of a zealous wizard. 

“Why daffodils?” she asked, touching his upper arm where his largest tattoo was concealed beneath his gray flannel.

“The scientific name for daffodils is narcissus,” he said with a smirk. “Or did you skimp on your herbology reading?”

She batted him on the arm. “I had rather more pressing issues!”

“Psshh. You had it easy,” he joked. He instantly regretted it. But she clasped his hand again. 

“Did she like daffodils?” she asked.

Did she? He had never asked her if she did. It was only after she was put away and he had left wizarding London that he had found out about the flower. A flirtation with a botanist and too much sherry had resulted in an evening on a bear skin rug, bawling his eyes out, and unloading his entirely life story to a girl so drunk that neither one of them could stand. The botanist had told him about daffodils, before retching on the carpet.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I never asked her.”

“Is she still alive?”

He nodded. “She doesn’t know who I am anymore.”

“Neither does mine,” Hermione said.

Draco squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.

“More tea?” Hermione asked.

“Love some.”

She stood up and scooped his cup up too. While she was inside, he took off his shoes and cuffed his pant legs. Nothing sounded better than putting his feet into that big blue watery thing. Draco strode down to the edge of the water and waited for the gentle waves to lap at his feet. 

The first touch of water on his skin was sobering. To say it was cold was an understatement, but he bore it until his feet were numb, and by then, his companion had returned with a well-stocked tray.

“I didn’t know if you ate,” she said simply. There was a full pot of tea, two cups with saucers, an entire loaf of brown bread with butter, and a wheel of brie. A veritable beach-side feast.

“Thanks,” he said, watching her balance the tray on a large log. He knelt in the sand to receive his tea.

They sipped, picked at the treats, and generally talked about nothing important for a long while. Hermione was struck by how at ease he seemed by the sea. With sleeves and pant legs cuffed, he looked so much younger. He looked out at the ocean as if coveting a great work of art. It could have merely been the angle of the sun, but his face appeared to be glowing with some sort of radiant peace. That morning, he didn’t furrow his brow once.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A seaside saturday.

“What do you like about being a barrister?” Hermione asked, popping a berry into her mouth. They had ridden bicycles into a small village nearby to pick up food for supper. Draco had completely neglected to bring any food with him, and they had eaten the last of Hermione’s that morning on the beach. There was a little farmer’s market in the town square setup with rows of vendors peddling fruits and vegetables. Hermione paid the owner of the berries for a large box, and placed it inside a basket, which she had draped over her arm.

Draco considered her question as he inspected some mushrooms. “Exacting justice, I suppose,” he said. “Making sure bad people get locked away for life.”

“And what is your specialization?”

“Murder, mostly. I am especially good at convincing a court to lock up murderers.” He looked to her for her opinion on the mushrooms.

Hermione pointed at a small box of portobellos. “A box of portobellos for the lady,” he said to the vendor.

The old woman smiled. “Two pounds, love.” Draco paid her and Hermione placed the mushrooms into the basket. “Bless you,” the woman said. She glanced from Hermione to Draco and then winked at him.

“I thought you were going to say that the suits were your favorite,” Hermione said. She followed behind as he moved on to a cart bearing leafy vegetables.

“I prefer the fine tailoring that Twilfitt and Tatting’s offers,” he said. “Not these… pedestrian rags they call suits these days.” Amusement colored his tone. He chose a bundle of spinach and fresh basil.

Hermione smirked. “All these years and still a stuck-up prat,” she said.

“So are you.” He smiled, then, and Hermione wondered if that was the first time she had seen him fully smile in their whole acquaintance.

“I am not,” she said. “I’m merely picky.”

“It took you twenty minutes to find a loaf of bread that crackled right.”

“Point taken.” Hermione leaned against a light post and watched his interaction with the vendor. He looked the man in the eye, handed over the money for his vegetables of choice, and thanked him. There was no trace of malice in his face, no disregard for those less wealthy. To anyone else, he would have appeared to simply be a muggle on holiday, rather than an infamous wizard in hiding. He showed no sign of annoyance when the vendor accidentally dropped his change onto the cobblestones. Instead, Draco knelt down himself to retrieve it. If only the vendor knew how monumental that scene was through Hermione’s eyes. Humble. He looked humble. Draco turned back to her.

“Have I got something on my face?” he asked.

She shook her head and smiled. She hadn’t meant to stare, but some things are too miraculous not to gawk at.

They bundled their basket onto the front handlebars of Draco’s bicycle and took off for the cottage. When they arrived, a snowy owl was perched on a stone lion’s head beside the front door. Hermione sighed, dismounting her bicycle.

“Harry has found me,” she groaned. She offered her arm to the bird and it stepped up carefully, so as not to scratch her with its talons.

Draco untied the basket from his handlebars. “Didn’t you tell him you were going away for the weekend?” he asked, unlocking the front door.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Hermione said. “Why? Does anyone know you’re here?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t got anyone to tell.”

Draco set the basket on the kitchen counter and removed the contents. Hermione untied the note from around the bird’s leg and leaned against the cabinets to read Harry’s chicken scrawl.

 

_Hermione~_

_How are you? We are fine. Went around yours to visit but it appears that you have absconded for the weekend, or perhaps ran off to Bulgaria with a Quidditch player. Before we file a missing witch report, I thought I’d see if this daft bird could find you. If you’re alive and well, please let us know so Ginny stops imagining all the places you’re probably lying, dead. If you are dead, don’t bother._

_Love,_

_Harry_

_Ps. I am almost 100% certain you are alive. Do forgive me for making light of your possible doom--Ginny’s paranoia is at critical levels. Huzzah, hormones!_

_P.P.S. Don’t go to Ron’s._

Hermione laughed and read the note aloud. “I had better tell him that I did not, in fact, abscond myself to Bulgaria.”

“I was a Seeker, however,” Draco said.

“That is true. I wonder why he mentioned not going to Ron’s. I haven’t spoken to Ron in a dog’s age,” she said, inspecting the address on the note.

“Alright, I’ll bite.” Draco braced his hands against the countertop. “Why haven’t you spoken to Weasley? I presumed him to be your wizard in shining armour.”

Hermione sighed, folding her arms. Ron had been wonderful to her, when circumstance allowed them to be together and unencumbered by the war. But that time had been short-lived; after Fred’s death, Ron had retreated from her. He disappeared for three months, into the African desert, to hunt down dragons with Charlie… in all that time, he hadn’t sent her one letter. By the time he returned, with twice as many freckles and no kind words, Hermione had made her peace. She gave him an out. A year later, he was engaged to Lavender Brown and living in Spain. Hermione did not miss him. Missing old Ron meant missing the days before the war claimed their youth, and they could not go back again. She did not wish to.

She rubbed her cheek. “Fred’s death, and all that. We were young. Loads of reasons. He’s married now. Lavender Brown, in fact.”

Draco nodded politely. “Don’t blame you, then. My supposed friends abandoned me after it all.”

“I am sorry--”

“Don’t be. I want no part in that life. Spaghetti?” Draco turned his back to her and studied the ingredients laid out before him on the counter, but his shoulders gave him a way with how they slumped forward.

Hermione hopped up to sit on the counter, pulling her feet up so she could hug her knees. Draco stared at the mushrooms and breathed out heavily. He glanced back at her and held her gaze.

“This is so strange,” he murmured. “What are we doing out here?”

She wasn’t sure he meant for her to answer that. He smiled slightly, shook his head, and began cutting up the vegetables.

Hermione wondered if she ought to give him some time alone. They still had one more day at the cottage, and although they hadn’t killed one another yet, she didn’t want him to feel watched. It was bad enough to put their past under a microscope.

“I had better send my reply to Harry,” she said, climbing off the counter.

“There’s paper in my room, on the desk,” Draco said. He didn’t turn around.

***

_Dear Harry, Ginny, and baby,_

_I have in fact absconded myself for the weekend. I am not in Bulgaria, I am not at Ron’s, and I’m not dead._

_He’s a whole different person out here, by the sea. You’d hardly recognize him, he hasn’t worn black once! We both needed to get away from London for a few days. We both need to heal. I don’t think I need to tell you that I’m struggling. At least out here, he’s just a friend. And I’m not a basketcase._

_I will return tomorrow evening, rather late I assume. You’re welcome to floo over once I’m back. Until then, bugger off and leave me to my holiday with the blond._

_Kisses,_

_Hermione_

 

That would certainly satisfy Harry’s curiosity, though it would exacerbate Ginny’s to no end. She leaned her head back against the chair.

Draco’s room was strangely comfy, decorated almost exclusively in burgundy tones. She hadn’t noticed the artwork the night before, though. Small portraits, drawn by a well-trained hand. They were hung on the wall in pairs, six in total, making a kind of gallery of faces. She didn’t recognize anyone at first. Not until she saw the one of Draco.

He looked so severe. There was no mistaking his furrowed brow. The artist had scratched the lines so deeply that some ripped through the paper.

She wondered if he had drawn it himself.

“Thank you for not mentioning me by name,” Draco said behind her, causing her to jump. She turned. Her letter was in his hand.

“I’m not ashamed, you know.” She gently took the letter from his hand.

He nodded. “If someone intercepts the owl…”

“Yes. Neither one of us need grace the front page of the Daily Prophet.” She smiled.

He placed his hand on her arm. “At least, not without good reason.” He smiled back. “I’m sorry for reading it; I admit that my curiosity got the better of me.”

Hermione covered his hand with hers. “Forgiven. I have kept no secrets from you anyway.”

“I am the secretive one between us. It’s a Slytherin thing.”

“Tell me a secret, then,” Hermione said, taking his hand.

Draco looked up towards the ceiling and tapped his chin. “I… hated my father.”

“Not a secret.”

“And I thought I was hiding it so well!” He scoffed, but it was tinged with amusement. It was easier for him to talk about Lucius if he joked about it.

“Fine, I’ll think of something better while we eat supper.”

Draco was an excellent cook, a skill he acquired while studying for his degree in law. Without house elves, he had been rubbish at feeding himself. He admitted to Hermione that it had the added bonus of impressing women, a fact with which she did not disagree.

When they were finished, Hermione washed the dishes as a trade for him cooking. Then, she made cocoa, while he stoked a fire in the sitting room’s grand hearth. Once they were settled with their cocoa before the fire, Hermione on the sofa and Draco on the floor with his back against it, Draco admitted his secret of choice.

“I’ve been put on a sort of… probation, by the senior partner at my firm,” he said with a sigh.

“What does that mean?” Hermione asked.

“I had it really bad a few months ago, I was really low. I did something that I haven’t done in a long time.”

She put her hand on his shoulder, but said nothing.

“I beat a man’s face in,” Draco breathed. “A suspect, who was wanted for murdering three young girls. But because I broke his nose and gave him a concussion, the court declared a mistrial, and that man is walking free. I hadn’t touched anyone out of anger in almost ten years; I thought I had that part of me under control. But he had laughed at me during questioning, and said those girls deserved what they got.”

He let out a long breath. “So now, I only have one more chance to prove that I’m fit to uphold the law. It’s the biggest murder case the firm has ever handled. Once the trial resumes in three months time, I will be fighting for my job. And if we don’t win, I will have wasted eight years of university on one man.”

Hermione felt horrible for him. He clearly had demons to wrangle. The fact that he knew he had a tendency towards violence might help him curb it, but it would take work. She wouldn’t absolve him of that. He had always seemed volatile. Except for now, actually.

“I seem to recall punching you in the face third year,” she said gently.

Draco looked up at her and smiled. “I deserved it.”

“Mmhm.”

He covered her hand with his own, where it rested on his shoulder. They finished their cocoa in silence, watching the logs burn down to ash.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's past trauma comes to light.

She was fast asleep on the sofa. He debated moving her, but thought it best not to put his arms around her without asking. She didn’t come all this way to be molested, and she deserved to feel like she had control over her body. Holding her hand one was thing; holding her in his arms was a whole different game. So he left her there while he tidied up their mugs. When he returned to the living room, she was awake and watching him with bleary eyes.

Draco sat on the opposite end of the couch. Hermione put her feet up on his leg.

“What time is it?” she yawned.

“Nearly midnight,” he said. 

“Oh, I never stay up this late!”

“You old crone.” Draco chuckled. She wrinkled her nose at him. He placed a hand on her shin.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Since the hospital and all that.”

“Fine,” she said. “Haven’t felt this good in ages.”

“Good, good.” He looked down at her leg, where his hand rested. “You, um… you mentioned in the ambulance having had a fit before.”

She blushed. “Only a few in the last ten years. They didn’t really get bad, of course, until--” she stopped and closed her. eyes.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to press.” 

“No, no. I want to tell you. I just haven’t ever… really talked about it.” Hermione sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. Her safety pose. Draco draped an arm over the back of the couch and turned so he sat cross-legged, facing her.

“Was it an isolated incident?” he asked gently.

She nodded. “I was seeing a man about five years ago, the first non-wizard I ever dated. The whole Ron thing still felt fresh, so I was trying to find someone who was his polar opposite. And he was that, in every possible way.” Hermione closed her eyes and breathed in a shaky breath.

“Did he hit you?” Draco murmured.

“And more,” she said, eyes welling. “Even though I could have hexed his bollocks off, I was just terrified. I hid my wand under the floorboards because I didn’t want him to have one inkling of what I could do. I was lucky I already knew how to live like a muggle, so I could iron and cook for him.”

Draco nodded politely. “It’s hard to imagine you as the shy housewife type.”

“For you and me both,” she said, giggling slightly and wiping her eyes.

“So, he triggered your fits?”

“Not at first. At first, I just went catatonic and didn’t remember anything he said or did to me. Until I burned a hole through a pair of his pants. And then he came after me with the hot iron. I locked myself in our bedroom, and clawed up the floorboards to get to my wand. By the time he broke down the door, I was ready for him.” Tears ran down Hermione’s cheeks. Draco dug his monogrammed handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it over.

“I haven’t used it,” he assured her.

Hermione wiped her face and blew her nose. He took the handkerchief back from her and stuffed it in his pocket again before she could protest that she could wash it for him. It didn’t seem to matter to him. He was giving all of his energy to her.

“What happened?” Draco asked, holding out his hand to her. She took it.

“I stupified him, but he fell forward onto me and the iron got trapped between his body and mine.” Hermione slowly put her legs down. She grasped the hem of her shirt and pulled it up so he could see her left side. Sure enough, she sported a massive burn scar. She put her shirt down again, once Draco had reacted appropriately (he winced). “And I blacked out right there, fit and all. I was lucky not to have swallowed my tongue, considering that I had a hulking man pinning me to the ground.” Hermione squeezed his hand. “Once I came to, I confunded him so he would turn himself into the police, and then I checked myself into the hospital. The doctor and I deduced that it was a traumatic response triggered by a prior episode. And there was only one instance I could think of.”

“My aunt,” Draco said.

She nodded. Draco shook his head in silent anger. Anger that she was abused so horribly by that man, and by his aunt… by him. 

“You’re shaking,” Hermione said, holding his hands between her own.

“I’m angry for you,” he said. “For what has happened to you--for what I could have done. I should have stopped it.”

“And gotten killed? You did what you could to survive, same as all of us.”

He shook his head. “I was asked to identify you when they brought you in.”

“I remember.”

“But I didn’t want to. I overheard what they had planned. I may have hated the ‘Golden Trio’ but--” he sighed. 

“You aren’t a killer. You didn’t want us to die.”

“But there is blood on my hands,” he whispered, fiercely. “And some of it is yours. And I cannot reconcile it, Hermione.” He felt his own tears threatening to break through.

Hermione swung her legs beneath her and put her hands on his shoulders. “You must forgive yourself.”

“I can’t.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck. He rested his forehead against her shoulder and fought wave after wave of tears. “I forgive you,” she said.

“Just like that?” he whispered into her shirt.

“No,” she said. “It took me a while. But there is more poison in a single ounce of a grudge than in the teasing words of a little boy. It is not my desire to punish you for what happened. I find that I’ve grown rather tired of hating anyone.”

Draco sat back and looked her square in the eye. “I hope they locked that man up for what he did to you.”

Hermione’s eyes flickered with pain. “He died in a prison fight.”

“He deserved it,” Draco said. He wiped an errant tear from Hermione’s cheek, but ignored his own.

She shook her head and smiled. “No. Nobody deserves to have their life snuffed out. Nobody should get to decide when someone else dies.”

“Well. He certainly didn’t deserve you, Granger.”

“Thank you,” she said. They sort of… stared at each other, until it became uncomfortable for both of them, to sit so close and see so deeply. “We had better get some sleep.”

“Yes, good idea,” Draco said, wiping his face on his sleeve. “We could go into town for breakfast tomorrow.”

“I’ll be ready.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A note comes from Ron, who seeks to drive a wedge between her and Draco.

Harry’s owl returned in the wee hours and tapped on Hermione’s window to be let in. It startled her out of a dead sleep. She blearily pulled open the window to allow the bird inside, and shivered in the night breeze. The bird (Calliope, as she was called) had three scrolls tied to her ankle. Oh, Merlin. Three at that late hour must mean something terrible happened, she reasoned. While Calliope made herself comfortable perched on the headboard, Hermione unrolled one of the scrolls and then settled into a cozy armchair beside the window. Harry’s scrawl greeted her.

 

_Hermione~_

_I knew you were alive! At least he’s a Seeker._

_Expect a Ginny hurricane to blow into your parlour tomorrow evening. In the meantime, enjoy yourself. You deserve… whatever that is._

_Affectionately,_

_Harry_

_P.S. I apologize for Ron’s letter being included in your delivery. We promised to send it for him because it was better than telling him where you are. Probably should wait until you’re not on holiday to read it. Other note is from Gin, it’s the one with the yellow ribbon._

She sighed, and her skin immediately prickled in dread. Something dreadful had indeed happened: Ron wanted to be in contact with her again. She wanted nothing to do with whatever he had to say; it was probably the same old “I’m an idiot”, with a heavy dose of guilt thrown in. He had sent her such letters twice before. She had never replied.

Hermione put Ron’s note to the side and unrolled the scroll with the yellow ribbon around it. Ginny had such a beautiful, flowy hand--it almost softened the prospect of a declaration from Ron.

 

_Dear ‘Mione,_

_I knew it! I knew you were with him. I want all the details tomorrow night, so don’t even bother writing back because I want you to enjoy yourself and let him into your boudoir if that’s what you want. He’s pretty fit now that he’s not a total prat!_

_You’re probably going to be angry with me for saying that. I know how you hate being pushed--but know that I love you and I want you to be happy with someone wonderful. If it’s the heir of Slytherin, I am delighted for all future dinner parties. If it’s not him, maybe you’ll just be healed to be friends with him. Whatever you want. I love you!_

_Now… Ronald is having a bad patch, but I promise his note isn’t as bad as you’re probably expecting. Suffice to say that Lavender has been stepping out on him and he’s grasping for straws. You don’t even have to read it, but maybe it would heal you to be friends with him too? He *is* my brother, even though I like to pretend he isn’t. If you can forgive Draco, could you forgive Ron too?_

_Think about it before you read his note. Don’t forget that Harry and I are here for you no matter what you decide._

_See you tomorrow! I’m bringing wine so I can watch you drink it!_

_Love,_

_Ginny_

 

Hermione set down the paper. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t the one who disappeared for three months without a word! She owed him nothing. She had already been the bigger person and let him off easy. Nobody, with the exception of Harry, Ginny, and now Draco, knew what had transpired between them, because she hadn’t had the heart to drag Ron’s name through the mud. No matter how mad she had been, she had never considered talking about him in a poor light to their mutual friends. She had walked away with her head up.

Why now? Why, after more than five years of radio silence, did he want to talk?

Is it possible for us to be friends? she thought. Is that something I even want? He was clearly in need to support, but she wasn’t sure she had the strength to give it. She couldn’t bear both of their pain. Ron surely would dump his angst onto her without helping her relieve her own--at least, that’s what he would have done before the war. He always was a whinier fellow. Nobody could complain like Ron.

Hermione debated starting a fire in her fireplace just to burn up his scroll, but she knew that she’d always wonder if she didn’t read it first. But that kind of decision required sustenance. She grabbed his scroll, stuffed it in the pocket of her robe, and padded out into the kitchen.

While she waited for the kettle of water to boil, Hermione studied the paper in her fist. The edges were well-worn, as if it had sat in a desk drawer awaiting the right moment to be sent… which meant that he had written it a while back. That didn’t make her decision any easier; if he had been dwelling on a possible reconciliation for a while, he might have certain expectations. But she didn’t have to acquiesce, even if she did read the letter. No debt would be incurred, to wrongs would demand to be made right. Ron would have no way of knowing that she had read it anyway. She could always claim innocence.

She hoped that he didn’t have any expectations. No matter what he had done to her, she couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him.

What would Ron say if he knew she was on holiday with Draco?

They had never had a chance to take a holiday together; they were children, anyway, and she had been obsessed with her schoolwork. They wouldn’t have found a weekend to get away, even had they wished to. A cup of pumpkin juice in Hogsmeade was as close to a romantic date as they had been able to muster. Hermione did not, in general, “get away” with men. Draco was the first person she had ever taken a holiday with who wasn’t a blood relative. And he wasn’t trying to romance her. The holiday was mutually beneficial for their sanity. Ron wouldn’t understand how two grown adults who were not sleeping together could possibly enjoy themselves on a weekend at the sea. She was certain that he wouldn’t understand anything about her relationship to Draco. Frankly, she didn’t care what Ron thought--if he was infuriated, all the better. It would be the first honest emotion she got out of him in ages.

“Here.” Draco touched her elbow and she realized the tea kettle was whistling. She jumped and flipped off the burner.

“I didn’t even hear it,” she said, blushing. “I must be sleeping standing up!”

Draco smiled sleepily and retrieved himself a mug from the cabinet. “I wasn’t asleep. You and I had much the same idea. Except my drug of choice will be chamomile this evening--you’ll never sleep after that orange zinger.” He took the tea bag out of her mug and replaced it with a chamomile bag.

“We don’t seem to be doing much of that anyway,” Hermione said. She poured hot water into both mugs. “I… I got an owl.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “From Potter?”

“Yes. And Ginny. And also Ron.”

“Merlin.” He leaned back against the counter and waited for her to elaborate if she wanted to. Hermione sighed and swirled her tea bag in her mug. She fished the scroll from Ron out of her pocket.

“Apparently Ron wrote this and sent it along with Harry and Ginny for me.”

“Merlin,” Draco repeated. “Must be urgent if they sent it past midnight.”

“That’s what I thought too. But I’m honestly…” she trailed off. For what felt like the hundredth time that evening, she felt tears threatening.

“What?” he asked.

“I need you to do something for me and I hate myself for even asking,” she whispered through her tears. “But maybe if you do it first, I can handle it. I won’t sleep unless I know what it says. You’ll probably say ‘no’ but--”

“But you haven’t actually asked me yet,” he chuckled.

Hermione smiled despite mounting anxiety. “Right. Um. Would you read this for me? And tell me if I should just burn it.”

“I can see it means a lot to you,” Draco said, taking the scroll gently from her fingers. “Sure, I’ll read it.”

Draco set down his mug. He stepped back from her and slowly unrolled the little paper. She studied his face as his eyes tracked across the paper. He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head slightly. When he finished, he paused for a moment before rolling it back up. Draco’s eyes watched Hermione’s feet as she shifted back and forth nervously. He finally looked up at her.

“Do you want me to tell you?” he asked.

“What kind of note is it?” She covered her mouth.

“It’s… it’s a solidly-written note. He has a lot to say, some of which is very personal…” he cleared his throat. “You should read it. It will drive you crazy if you don’t.”

“Is he trying to convince me he is sorry?”

Draco smiled despite obvious discomfort. “Not in so many words, no. Though Potter’s right: he’s clearly an idiot..”

She frowned. “You talked to Harry about Ron and me?” Hermione took the scroll back and stuffed it in her pocket. She hated the thought of Harry divulging anything to Draco. It was her life and he had no right.

“Just once, when I brought you flowers. I ran into Potter, asked after Weasley, he said that Ron’s an idiot. I just wanted to know why he wasn’t around,” Draco said, scratching his head. ”Honestly, it kind of pissed me off that he wasn’t there for you in the hospital.”

“I thought you didn’t come to the Ministry that day.” She felt hurt that he had lied. But what upset her most was that she actually felt… upset. At Draco. She let out a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. When she looked at Draco, he seemed sheepish. He was looking at the ground.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She set her tea on the counter and braced her hands on the marble. “One note and I’m falling apart.”

Draco held out his hand to her. She took it and grasped it tightly. He pulled her into his chest and she buried her face in his shirt.

“I’m not your enemy,” he said gently, into her hair. “And you don’t owe me an apology.”

Hermione stepped back slightly, but his shirt was fisted in her hands. She was holding on for dear life. “What do I owe you?” she murmured. His face with just a hair’s breath from hers. His eyes flicked down to her lips and back up again. Draco shook his head almost imperceptibly.

“You owe me nothing.” His eyes softened. His head dipped towards hers, but he straightened. Hermione’s heart began to race. She nodded.

“You’ve done so much. For me.”

Draco tilted his head with just a hint of his boyhood smirk. He shook his head. “Let’s get one thing straight, Granger: I owe you far more.” Draco leaned back against the counter and patted her robe pocket. “Read, and then I'm sending you to sleep.”

Hermione pulled the note out of her pocket right there, standing between Draco’s feet, while he rested his hands on her hips. She took a deep breath and read.

  
  


_Hermione,_

_I hardly know how to begin. It’s been a very long time. I don’t suppose you remember, but the last time we spoke, you told me to live well, and I believe I have done so, in my own way._

_You’ve probably heard by now: Lavender has decided that she wants nothing to do with me. She’s been seeing other blokes for ages, though I only just figured it out. Guess I was too busy focusing on trying to be the kind of man you said I could be, a man who sticks by his word, to notice that my wife didn’t like being married to me. The kids and I are with mum and dad at the Burrow. Lav isn’t pursuing custody. It’s a clean break._

_I heard about your accident and I felt sort of responsible for what happened. I wanted to be there for you, but I didn’t know how after all these years. But I heard that someone was there in my place._

_Do you really want to be involved with someone who made you so miserable? I suppose you know what you need better than anyone. I just don’t want to see you get hurt._

_I don’t expect to hear from you, but I couldn’t help but write you. Maybe it’s nostalgia, or guilt. I always have cared deeply for you and that won’t ever change._

_Ron_

  
  


Hermione groaned and crumpled the letter up again. She rested her forehead against Draco’s chest. Ron had some nerve. He had no right to tell her how to live, or who to lean on. He had no idea who she was now. He didn’t know what she needed. He didn’t have a place by her side, or any right to assume she would have wanted him there with her.

She hadn’t thought of him once through her whole ordeal.

“Want to burn it?” Draco asked.

Hermione looked up in surprise and laughed. Draco smiled back. She wanted nothing more than to turn Ron’s words into smoke, and let them go. And let her grudge go with it.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They return to London. Ron's a prat.

They took their time the next day. Hermione didn’t rise until after noon, and by the time she did, Draco had ridden his bicycle into the village and returned with brunch. He had tea waiting for her once she emerged from her room. 

The prospect of returning to London weighed heavily on them both and they spoke very little. How could they go back? With Draco’s upcoming case, and Hermione’s impending job and house hunt, this weekend escape was probably a one-time thing. Could they be friends in the city that broke them?

“Earth to Granger,” Draco said, nudging her shoulder. She was leaning against the counter, clutching her empty teacup. She smiled. “You appear to be in a daze.”

“This whole weekend has been a daze,” she said. “I don’t really like the thought of going home.”

Draco nodded. “And yet, we must.”

“We must.”

“You have a new apartment to hunt.”

“Indeed,” she sighed. 

“Will you move back to Wizarding London?” he asked.

“I’ll be moving somewhere I can afford, which, unfortunately, may only be up the Ministry’s arse.” She huffed. Draco raised an eyebrow.

She quickly explained. “That is to say that I think Kingsley would get me into... Flamel House, if I was in dire straights. Which I may be, if I can’t find a job fast enough.”

“But that place is for witches who have gone absolutely mental,” Draco protested, setting down his mug. “We’re talking actual basketcases.”

Her head snapped up. “Isn’t that what I am?” she asked forcefully. He took her mug away and grasped her face between his hands gently. He looked her dead in the eye.

“You are not a basket case,” he murmured. “You are not mental or crazy or psycho, or even slightly deranged. You’re having a shit time. But you don’t belong in a madhouse, all right?”

“All right,” she agreed softly. 

He pulled her against his chest and she buried her face under his chin. She would miss this place against his chest, where she could put an ear to his chest and hear his heart. Once they left, the spell would be broken; whatever mysterious force that allowed them to understand each other so intimately would dissolve. That’s what she expected, anyway. They both had lives that they had built without the presence of the other. It would be impossible to fit this little slice of mercy into her daily struggle. She just couldn’t pencil him in. Where would he fit? ‘Friend’ was too specific a word for him. He was not a hero or a partner or a savior; they were just… kindred.

“I can feel you thinking,” he whispered.

She laughed silently.

“If… if you can’t find anywhere else… to live, I mean, then… you could live here. Temporarily, until you found something better.” His voice rumbled beneath her ear. Hermione closed her eyes and smiled.

“I can’t,” she said. “I’d get bored without you here to pester me.”

“I could get you a cat.”

“I think I prefer snakes,” Hermione giggled.

Draco chuckled. “Oh, really? Shall I wrest an Anaconda from the Amazon to be your housemate?”

“If you like, though I’m sure he won’t cook quite as well as you.”

Draco shook with laughter. When she finally pulled away, Hermione pretended not to notice the blush in his cheek. She washed their mugs, while Draco prepared the cottage to be left unoccupied once more. She scurried to his room while he was doing up the shutters outside, and knicked the severe portrait of Draco off the wall. She stuffed it in her bag, at the very bottom; she was sure that he wouldn’t even know it was gone.

She nearly forgot her wand from beneath her mattress… she wasn’t sure that she really would have missed it.

Once the furniture in the cottage was covered with white sheets, they gathered their travel bags and departed for Hermione’s flat, via side-along apparition.

***

They arrived in Hermione’s flat with a jolt, only to be met with a wand trained on them. Draco stood slowly, grasping Hermione’s arm to help her stand. Before them stood a man with hair the color of deep russet. Ron.

“You let go of her!” Ron bellowed at Draco. Draco held up his hands.

“I was just helping her up,” Draco said.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?” Hermione said, crossing her arms. “How do you even know where I live--oh, for Merlin’s sake! Put that away.” She gestured to Ron’s wand. He sheepishly stuffed the wand up his sleeve and scowled.

“What are you doing with him?” Ron asked.

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Mate, we’re just coming back and it’s been a long weekend--” 

Ron’s face paled, forcing his galaxy of freckles to stand at attention. “You went on holiday with the heir of Slytherin?”

“I went on holiday with Draco,” Hermione corrected.

“Why?” Ron asked, almost desperately.

“That isn’t your business,” she said.

“I mean, for all I know, you went on a tour of all the nude beaches in France! Doesn’t change who he is.” Ron jabbed his finger into Draco’s chest.

“How did you guess?” Draco exclaimed. “Our favorite was Cap d’Agde, wasn’t it?” He looked at Hermione with a twinkle in his eye. She bit back a laugh.

“I quite liked that one, though I think I do prefer the feeling of the fine granules at St. Tropez!” she took his arm. “It has done wonders for your skin!”

“And yours,” Draco said with a wink.

Ron stamped his foot on the floor so hard that the board beneath his boot slightly splintered. “You cannot see him.”

Hermione stepped forward and pointed a finger in his face. “You can’t stop me,” she whispered.

“I’ll go to the Prophet. You’ll both be humiliated,” Ron seethed.

“Give my regards to Ms. Skeeter,” Hermione said.

“And mine,” Draco added.

Ron huffed, turned on his heel, and exited the flat with a resounding slam of the door. It bounced so hard that it popped open again. Draco breathed out heavily.

“Merlin, Hermione,” he said, shutting the door and locking it tight. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Hermione breathed. 

Draco leaned against the door frame and toed at the ground. “I’ve created something of a mess for you,” he said. “I’m sorry for taunting him, but I just couldn’t believe he was here.”

“We shouldn’t have left,” she said. She wrapped her arms around her waist and shook her head. She looked exhausted.

“Let’s go back right now.” Draco smiled sadly.

She shook her head and smiled back.

“Unfortunately, I have a feeling that we’ll be tomorrow’s front page story. We can’t avoid notoriety now.”

Draco stepped forward. “I don’t really care. I just… I don’t want to step back after this weekend.”

Hermione stepped closer too, so they were nearly nose-to-nose. “What do you want?” she asked.

Draco looked down at her lips and leaned down hesitantly. At that moment, before he could get any closer, green light burst from the fireplace, carrying Ginny out with it.

“Oops! Pregnant lady must pee!” Ginny looked between Hermione and Draco, made a swirling motion with her finger, and ran to the bathroom. Draco sighed and stepped away from Hermione.

“I’ll see you,” he murmured. He apparated out of the flat, leaving Hermione alone with the sound of Ginny singing in the bathroom.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione fills Ginny in on her weekend with Draco, and Ron becomes an even bigger problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W: miscarriages.

Hermione stared at the spot of floor that Draco had just vacated. She had known it would be like this, that suddenly, and without warning, the happiness bubble would burst and they’d go back to being strangers again. But she hadn’t expected him to just poof away at the first threat from Ron. Not even a threat--a tantrum. She missed him already. 

“Don’t mind me, I’ll get out of your hair!” Ginny sang as she opened the bathroom door. When she saw Hermione standing alone in the middle of the living room, she stopped in her tracks. “Where’s the blond?”

“Gone home,” Hermione said sadly.

“Oh… is it my fault? Because I had no idea he’d be here with you--”

“No, no,” Hermione sighed. “We only just arrived ourselves. Ron was here when we got in.”

Ginny groaned. “What an arse.”

“A right git,” Hermione agreed. “Tried to get all territorial when Draco said we just got back from holiday, as if he has some first boyfriend’s right to me.”

“So Malfoy just disappeared?” Ginny asked.

“He stood up for me. But he didn’t get mean, he just sort of… laughed at Ron.” Hermione tried not to smile as she thought of Ron’s shocked face when she had taken Draco’s arm.

“Oh Merlin--and I’m sure that went over swimmingly with Ronald!” Ginny leaned against the back of the couch.

“To say the least. Draco did leave right after you arrived, however.” Hermione slumped into her cushy armchair. Ginny sat opposite her on the couch and looked her friend over.

“You look good, though,” Ginny said, eyes sparkling. 

Hermione tried not to smile but she couldn’t help it. Aside from the episode with Ron, she did feel… wonderful.

“Thanks, Gin.”

“Did you invite a certain former Slytherin into your boudoir on this holiday?” Ginny asked.

“Wow! Right out of the gate,” Hermione exclaimed. She sat forward and blushed, running a hand over her plaited hair.

“You DID! I knew it!” Ginny cackled.

“No, I did not, thank you VERY much!” Hermione said. “He never made any sort of intimate gesture towards me.” Aside from holding her while she cried. And brushing her hair out of her face. And holding her face in his hands. And making her breakfast. And making her countless cups of tea.

“Then why, may I ask, are you smiling?”

Hermione sighed. “I don’t know if I can put words to it. It was just… the most rejuvenating weekend I’ve had. Ever, I think. You wouldn’t recognize him anymore.”

“Is he stoic and emotionless, now? Because he definitely was that night he apparated into our parlour,” Ginny said. “All Mr. Darcy-ish.”

“Hardly a fair comparison considering that Darcy and Elizabeth never went on holiday together.”

“Untrue! She went to Pemberley with her aunt and uncle and then had that weekend playing the piano with Darcy’s sister and then they fell in love and stopped hating each other. Did you even read ‘Pride and Prejudice’?” 

“Do you even KNOW me?” Hermione scoffed. “Also, I stopped hating him a long time ago. And he doesn’t have a sister.”

Ginny laughed and Hermione couldn’t help but join in. She shook her head and thought about just what sort of man Draco was, now. A man struggling with extreme guilt, overcoming years of emotional and physical abuse, but making his way as an independent man, in a world that he used to denounce. 

“I’ll say this: I saw him clearly for the first time in our whole acquaintance. And there is nothing to loathe about him. I saw him at a very low point, but… never once did I see a glimpse of the petulant child he once was. If ever anyone could be ‘a changed man’...”

“My word,” Ginny said, amazed. “But did you see him without his clothes on? Because if you didn’t, you should immediately return to the seaside and rectify that situation.”

“I saw him shirtless, but it’s not what you think,” Hermione said, though she blushed. She looked down at her hands. “I told him everything. About Ron, and the one after Ron, who… who--”

“Whose name we don’t say,” Ginny finished for her. 

Hermione nodded. “I never felt afraid, though. Not even with what I know from his past… there’s so much more about him that I didn’t know. You know he’s a barrister, now?”

“I had no idea.”

“He is also an excellent chef, and I have a suspicion that he’s been dabbling in portrait sketching. He lives in Muggle London, too, and he’s donating the Manor to the historic trust. His mother is in hospice at St. Mungo’s. He has other tattoos besides that one. He enjoys riding his bicycle, he loves standing in the ocean until his feet go numb, and he has an excellent wit.” Hermione hugged her knees to her chest. She held back one of her favorite things about him: he was, of course, marvelous at making her feel validated and unashamed of herself. She wondered when he got so good at listening. And touching her without it feeling like an invasion of her space. 

“From the bottom of my heart, and in all seriousness…” Ginny paused, serenity filling her already glowing cheeks. “Draco Malfoy may be the very best thing that has ever happened to you.”

Hermione rubbed a hand over her face and let her head fall back against the chair. She closed her eyes and sighed dramatically, which caused Ginny to giggle. “I’m doomed,” Hermione said simply.

“Absolutely fucked, my beautiful witch!”

“I will say,” Hermione began, “that I am so thankful for your friend Gary.”

Ginny burst out laughing. “Poor Gary!”

“If it weren’t for Gary picking that restaurant, I never would’ve run into Draco.”

“He must have quite the hero complex, considering the lengths he has gone to ensure that you’re fully healed,” Ginny said.

“Honestly? He’s gutted about things that went on between us before.”

“As he should be, he was a prick!”

Hermione stood and kicked off her shoes. “He has been punished enough, Gin. He needs to heal as much as the rest of us.” She padded towards the kitchen. “Since you seem to have neglected to bring any wine, I hope you don’t mind if I have a glass of my own.”

“Please, drink the whole bottle and let me live vicariously through you!” Ginny called after her.

“How have YOU been feeling?” Hermione asked.

Ginny didn’t answer. Hermione poked her head out of the kitchen to find Ginny folding her hands over her belly. She was biting her lip. 

“What? What is it?” Hermione abandoned the wine and knelt on the floor in front of her friend.

“I’m terrified that this one won’t make it,” Ginny whispered. 

“Do the doctors think you’re at risk for another miscarriage?” Hermione asked gently.

“No, no. And I’ve done everything right this time. No coffee, no fish, no junk food except for an occasional sweet thing…” Ginny sighed, tears forming on her lashes. “We just really need this one.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around Ginny’s neck. Ginny sniffed into her shoulder. 

“Harry is so good, ‘Mione. So good to me and so kind, even when he’s having a hard time. But I just don’t know if either one of us could bear another loss.”

“Third time’s the charm, so they say,” Hermione said. She rubbed Ginny’s back in small circles.

“They’re lying jerks, whoever they are.” Ginny pulled back and wiped her tears on her sleeve. “Besides, there’s nothing charming about the first trimester. Do you know what I ate yesterday? Kale. With raspberry jam. And then I ate four bananas. And then I threw all of it up, and ate a cookie.”

Hermione smiled.

“And you’re still working with McGonagall,” Hermione said. She reached for a box of tissues that was sitting on top of a large stack of moving bins. She handed it to Ginny, who blew her nose soundly.

“Somewhat, though I’m mostly just consulting with her from home, and looking after Rose and Hugo while Ron’s at work. They’re a welcome distraction and they’re both lovely.” Ginny let out a long breath.

“I am sorry about Ron, though,” Ginny said. “Especially that he’s taken to showing up at your house and sending you long letters.”

Hermione shrugged. “He’s hurting,” she said. “But I liked it better when we weren’t talking.”

“So, you don’t think you’ll ever be friendly again?”

“I don’t want to be friends, Gin. I want him to leave me alone.”

Ginny sighed, but she nodded as if she agreed that it was for the best. Just then, someone frantically knocked on the front door. Hermione and Ginny exchanged a puzzled look. Hermione stood and looked through the peep-hole. She threw open the door to reveal Draco supporting Ron, who appeared to have run head-first into a freight train. Blood was gushing from Ron’s nose and he was squinting one eye, which was well on its way to being purple. Draco also had the beginnings of a black eye. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what had happened.

“First off, you should know that it was self-defense,” Draco panted, supporting Ron under one arm. Ron now appeared to be as limp as a wet noodle, and entirely unable to stand up. 

“Put him on the couch,” Hermione said, stepping out of the way. Ginny stood up quickly and arranged a pillow on the arm rest for Ron’s head. Once he deposited Ron onto the couch, Draco braced his hands on his knees. Ginny raced into the kitchen and returned with a hand towel packed with ice. She attended to Ron, while Hermione pulled Draco to sit down in the armchair so she could look at his eye.

“What the hell happened?” Hermione asked. When her thumb brushed his eyebrow, he winced. 

“I apparated to outside your building with the express intent of walking home. After our last encounter, I had some steam I needed to work off,” Draco said.

“Apparently you burned off some steam on Ron’s face!” Hermione said.

Draco grabbed her hand so she would stop prodding his skin. “He was sitting on a bench out front and when he saw me, he took a swing at me,” Draco said. 

“Apparently he forgot that he was holding his wand,” Ginny said, forcing another pillow under Ron’s head.

“He didn’t seem to have it. So, he cracked me right in the eye, the bastard,” Draco pressed his eyes shut and winced again. “He got in three more swings before I got my footing. I only hit him the once, to make him stop. I just wanted to talk like men.”

“He smells like a distillery,” Ginny said, plugging her nose.

“Bloody hell,” Hermione sighed. She rubbed her cheek with her free hand. Draco rubbed the pad of his thumb over her knuckles.

“I’ll floo home for Harry’s help getting Ron to St. Mungo’s,” Ginny said, standing. “He’s in no condition to travel side-along.”

“Let me,” Draco said. “I’ll meet the both of you at St. Mungo’s once I’ve got Potter.”

“Are you sure you feel alright to travel by floo?” Hermione asked. Draco squeezed her hand.

“I’ll have them look me over at the hospital, too, if it’ll make you feel better,” he said.

“It would,” Hermione said. “Just to be safe.”

“Then, I will.” He stood up slowly and groaned. “Merlin, I am sorry, Hermione.”

She sighed. “You defended yourself.”

“I am sorry that this is the way the weekend ended,” he clarified.

“It’s better than apparating away without so much as a ‘farewell’,” she muttered through her teeth, raising an eyebrow.

Draco looked up at her and shook his head with a sad smile. He had nothing to say in his own defense; she was right, and he was still a git. Hermione graced his jaw with her fingertips and inclined her head towards the fireplace.

“Go on, you.” 

Draco stood, his back to Ginny, and Ron’s pummeled face. They were but a hair’s breath apart. He grasped the nape of Hermione’s neck, and pressed his lips to her forehead so softly that she wasn’t quite sure if they had actually touched. Her heart had other ideas, leaping into her throat and beating madly. He turned away and took one last look at Ron, before taking a handful of floo powder from the bowl on the mantle.

“What do you call your home, Ginny?” Draco asked.

“Oh! Just say ‘the Nest’,” Ginny said.

Draco did so, and disappeared in a flash of green. Hermione stood in the place Draco had left her, looking gobsmacked and flushed. When she finally came back to her senses, Ginny was looking at her with a wide grin.

“You’re completely doomed,” Ginny said.

Hermione rolled her eyes and retrieved her wand from her bag, trying to ignore the tingling sensation on her forehead. Ron was beginning to stir and the bleeding had stopped, which meant that it was reasonably safe for them to floo with him in tow. Hermione supported most of his weight on her own shoulders to prevent Ginny from carrying anything other than Ron’s left arm. They hustled him to the fireplace, took a handful of floo powder each, and said their destination in unison:

St. Mungo’s.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione pass the point of no return.

Hermione stood outside the St. Mungo’s floo waiting impatiently for Draco to arrive with Harry. Ginny had offered to stay with Ron while the doctor’s took care of him, and Hermione was thankful for the chance to escape. She didn’t want to be responsible for Ron any more than the effort it took to get him there, and lucky for her, there were nurses waiting when they arrived. Apparently, Draco had sent word ahead of them. Speaking of Draco…

When he and Harry emerged from the grand marble fireplace, Hermione sighed in relief.

“Thank Merlin you’re here,” she said. Harry opened his arms to hug her.

“Malfoy filled me in,” Harry said. “Apparently I made a grave mistake in agreeing to send his letter along, and I’m sorry for it.”

Hermione stepped back and patted his shoulder. “It’s done. And now that the gang’s all here, hopefully we can get him some real help.”

“Sorry, ‘Mione, but I’m taking responsibility for the ole boy! I relieve you of ever again having to put up with Ron’s shenanigans,” Harry said, mock-serious. He held up his hand. “On my honor. If he shows up at your house unannounced again, which he won’t, I’ll personally escort him to Azkaban. If he even THINKS about you, he’ll have to answer to me.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Harry. But thank you.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.” Hermione’s eyes flicked to Draco, who was trying to hide an amused smirk. “You sure took your time getting here!” She put her hands on her hips, but she was more than happy to see him. His cheekbone had begun to bruise and she felt a compulsion to run her fingertips over it, or at the very least to hug him for coming back once again. She hoped that she would always feel her heart leap into her throat when she saw him… she hoped he would keep coming back.

“Don’t razz the poor man!” Harry exclaimed, throwing his arm around Draco’s shoulders. “He’s been in a fist fight with a prize idiot; I think he’s earned a rest.”

“The way you talk about Weasley…” Draco shook his head with a chuckle.

“I’d say it to his face,” Harry said. “He’s my best mate, but even I can recognize when he’s in need of an intervention. To be honest, I’ve never been able to talk any sense into him, even when there was a horcrux involved. He has to come to his own senses. Once he’s conscious.”

“At least he’s that,” Hermione said. She pointed Harry in the general direction of Ron’s room, though he was savvy enough to stop at the Nurse’s station and ask for the number himself.

She turned back to the bruised man before her. Draco smiled at her and shoved his hands in his pockets, as if he didn’t trust them to be freely hanging from his arms.

“You didn’t have to come along with Harry,” she said softly.

He nodded his head towards the floo and raised his eyebrow in silent question.

“Where to?” she asked.

“To get my face looked at by a nurse, like I promised,” he began, “and then anywhere. Wherever you want to go; I’m going to be awake for a while until the adrenaline wears off and I don’t really feel like being alone.”

“I don’t really want to go to mine after all that,” Hermione said.

“We could go to my flat,” he suggested.

“Do you have wine at your flat?”

“I think so. Is it wise after our last encounter with alcohol?” Draco winked. Hermione blushed at the thought of how incensed with him she had become when under the influence of firewhiskey.

“It’s worth another shot,” she said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Draco’s cheeks grew red at the thought of what could happen if they were uninhibited by propriety. His lips might make it closer to hers. That’s all they seemed to want to do, since she had held him during his mania. No, much earlier than that. Since she had agreed to go to the sea in the first place. Since he sat on her hospital bed and helped her pull her hair out of her face. Since he had saved her in the restaurant. Since he saw that first glimpse of the woman she had become in the five years since he last laid eyes on her, and ten years since they had last spoke. He felt so compelled to be around her, to ask her things, to listen to her incredible mind and the speed with which it whirred. He came to St. Mungo’s with Harry because he had wanted to see her home safely… and because every moment he could seize with her from now on was a glimpse of joy. He wanted to give her that. And it was bloody terrifying that it only took two days at the seaside for him to be lost in her, but he was a goner.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she whispered.

“Like how?”

“Like you’re the mouse and I’m the cheese.”

Draco chuckled and offered her his arm. “Come on, you.”

Hermione took it without hesitation. They traveled up a few floors via the intra-hospital floo network, to the non-emergency clinic. The medi-witch gave him a nasty looking potion, which tasted like licorice, and recommended ice to help the swelling go down. Otherwise, he had no broken bones in his face, and could expect to make a full recovery in a few days time.

Draco was relieved that he wasn’t more damaged; Ron had gotten in three good shots, cheap as they were. It had hurt like hell, and he landed a precise but crushing blow to Ron’s nose to get the man to stop. Draco had taken but a moment to catch his breath before scooping Ron out of the gutter and dragging him back upstairs. Most of all, he was relieved that Hermione wasn’t furious with him for bringing Ron back, or for hitting him. She understood him better than most anyone he had ever met… at least, that’s how it felt.

When they stepped out of the fireplace and into Draco’s flat, Hermione was clinging to his sleeve. She was clearly exhausted after a non-stop day of traveling, but she still insisted that Draco sit while she poured them each a glass of wine. Draco had directed her towards a bottle of wine that he had been saving for a special occasion. He couldn’t think of anything that could top her just wanting to be there, in his flat.

He sat on his deep sofa and rested his head against the back. Hermione put a knee down beside him and passed off his wine glass. She sat on her knees, propping her head up with an arm braced against the back of the couch, body fully facing him. He held up his glass to hers.

“Should we toast?” she asked.

“To what?”

“To being free,” she said simply. Draco smiled.

“To being free,” he repeated. They clinked their glasses together and each took a sip.

Draco laid his head back once more, and watched her as she considered the way the red liquid swirled around in the tall glass. She looked up at him again and smiled softly. This time, she gave into temptation and allowed her fingers to ghost along his cheekbone. He shivered.

“You already look better,” she said. “I think that potion must be some sort of fast-acting remedy.”

“But will it cure my ugly mug?” he joked, twisting his face into a silly shape. She giggled.

“You’re not ugly.”

“Do you need your eyes checked?” Draco asked. “I’m a ferret; that’s what they always called me.”

She shook her head and cupped his jaw absent-mindedly.

“You’ve grown into your slender face,” she said. “You are quite handsome.” She blushed immediately, as if she hadn’t meant to say so out loud.

He beamed. “Am I?”

She wrinkled her nose. “You know you are.”

“I know nothing of the kind!” He said, covering her hand with his. “I’m happy that you find my face pleasing, aesthetically.”

She was bright red, but she wasn’t ashamed that he knew how she thought of him. She had only just formed an opinion, but it wasn’t one she was likely to go back on. He seemed to improve in her eyes more and more as the minutes wore on.

“I do,” she said.

“I find your face to be redemptive,” he whispered. “That, or maybe you’ve hypnotized me.”

Hermione shivered involuntarily and blushed. She tried not to let her embarrassment show. And then she immediately felt silly being embarrassed in front of him. He had seen her far more vulnerable.

She looked around his flat in favor of avoiding eye contact. It was relatively sparse, with only a single couch and fireplace in the living room. He didn’t have any paintings on the wall, or bookshelves, or pillows. It seemed like he never spent any time in the living room, just passed through on his way out.There were two doors; one was open, and lead to what appeared to be a kitchen, while the other door remained closed.

She shivered again.

“Can I borrow a jumper?” she asked.

“Nothing in your size, but I suppose you could try a few things…” Draco shuffled through his wardrobe in his mind.

“Is your bedroom through there?” she asked, pointing at the closed door. She set down her glass.

“Yes--”

“I’ll find something,” she said quickly, heading for his room. He skirted around her and blocked the doorway.

“It’s messy. I better go retrieve you something myself.”

“You haven’t been here all weekend, and it doesn’t bother me,” she said. She ducked beneath his arm and entered. Hermione gasped.

The room wasn’t messy. It was luxurious, but not in the extravagant way the manor was outfitted. Its elegance was most obvious in the mahogany four-poster bed, but that’s where excesses began and ended. It was just as modest as the rest of his flat, but much more personal. The colors were rich and warm. Simple indulgences for a modest man. The walls were a deep charcoal color, and heirloom velvet curtains in burgundy hung from rods above the windows. The bed itself had a gorgeous quilt with an intricate solar system pattern, and a mountain of pillows. Best of all was a small stove in the corner, which made the quilt stars glow.

Draco blanched as he watched her explore his room with quiet politeness. It wasn’t that he had been ashamed for her to see it, but there’s something intimate about seeing a person’s room. It makes you look at them differently, because you’ve seen what their idea of sanctuary is. No woman had seen his flat, let alone the room that he had worked so hard to make cozy. There was no telling what Hermione thought. He wouldn’t be able to hide anything from her, now.

“Beautiful,” she breathed. She looked up at him and he blushed. “More and more interesting!”

“My wardrobe is through there,” he said, indicating the skinny door beside the stove.

Hermione stepped into the small closet and switched on the light. Black on black fabric adorned every hanger. Her fingers grazed over a wide row of black shirts. Stuffed in the back corner, she found a set of flannel pyjamas in a pleasant black watch plaid print. Perfect.

“This will do,” she said. He didn’t answer.

His bedroom was vacant, so she changed out of her weekend clothes and into Draco’s pyjamas. Her shirt had a bit of Ron’s blood on it near the collar, and carried his eau de alcohol. Hermione knelt in front of the stove and pulled the small furnace door open. She recognized a fire spell when she saw one, but it was a cold flame, which allowed her to stuff the old shirt into the embers. She closed the door again and left the tee shirt to burn. As for her shorts, she folded them and tucked them under her arm.

When Hermione emerged from his room, she had pulled her mane up into a large bun on top of her head. Draco’s pyjamas swamped her, but she liked it. And she was warm, and smelled like him. He was sitting on the couch and he turned when she spoke.

“Your bedroom is lovely,” she said. She placed her shorts on the ground beside the living room fireplace.

His eyes softened.

“I am rather fond of it myself,” he said. “And--” he cleared his throat. “You, I’m fond of you. Additionally.”

Hermione put her hands behind her back and just smiled. She didn’t have to say it, but her face did. She was fond of him, too.

An imperceptible look crossed his face, but for a moment, and then it was gone… as if it pained him to look at her. He looked down and breathed out slowly.

Her heart dropped into her stomach.

“You don’t have to think about it,” she murmured. “About why we’re here, and how it happened--you don’t have to expect it to stop abruptly, or over-analyze every word I’ve ever said to you. I know it’s hard not to, considering… but try as I might, the harder I think about it, the less I think those things matter. Oh..” she sighed. “Now that I’ve said all of it out loud, It sounds silly.”

Draco looked up at her. He held out his hand.

The distance between them felt massive and important. He wasn’t just reaching out his hand; he was reaching for her. If she took his hand, there was no going back. No second guessing. No walking away in fear. No dragging up the past in a drunken stupor.

He could pull her out of the dark for good. But more than that, she could invest in someone--

“Stop that,” he chuckled. He was standing before her smiling. He smoothed the furrow between her brow with his thumb. “I see you over-thinking!”

“I’m Hermione Granger! I can’t turn it off!” she threw up her hands and sighed. He stepped closer and cupped her cheeks in his hands.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear; I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

“Why not?” she asked, curling her fingers into the front of his shirt.

“I’m staying right here.”

“I think you’ve lost your mind,” she said.

“Hermione, listen to me!” he said firmly, lowering his head so he was eye-level with her. “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t want to let you go.”

She pressed her forehead to his.

“Call me greedy, I don’t care,” he whispered. “Don’t think. Just say yes. We’ll see where we end up.”

Hermione pulled back so she could look into his eyes. “What would I be agreeing to?”

“Well… Me, I guess.”

“I’m agreeing to You?” she smiled.

“Don’t laugh!”

“I’m not sorry,” she said with a grin. He threw his head back and shook with laughter.

“Was that a yes?” he asked.

She reached up and brushed his bottom lip with her thumb. Hermione inclined her head up to his and pressed her lips to his. Draco cupped the back of her head with one hand and pulled her against him with the other, petrified that if he let go of her, she would come to her senses and stop. He lifted her off her feet entirely. She pulled away first, gently, feet dangling above his as he held her around the waist.

“Was THAT a yes?” he asked.

She nodded and wrapped her arms around his neck. He sighed from relief, tucking his face into her neck.

“What do we do now?” Hermione asked. She stroked his nape.

“I have to prepare for my trial, and catalogue the contents of the Manor, all in the next three months or so--”

“I meant tonight,” she grinned. He set her on her feet and kissed her cheek, before releasing her.

“You’ve made me hungry, Granger,” he said. “How do you like pizza?”

“Love it.”

“Excellent!” He gave her a lingering peck on the lips and bounded into the kitchen like a teenager. When she didn’t immediately follow, he poked his head out of the doorway. “Come on, I’ll teach you how to throw a good crust.”

She stood there, hands over her mouth in happy disbelief. He winked and beckoned her towards him, holding out his hand. Hermione took it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended this to be a super slow burn, but I couldn't wait any longer for them to kiss. X


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco makes Hermione an offer.

He unlocked the window and pushed up the sash. He handed her the bottle and swung a leg over the window sill until he could toe the fire escape. Once he was sure of his footing, Draco swung the other leg over and beckoned for her to follow.

“Come on, Granger! It’s perfectly safe,” he said with a grin. “Well… safe-ish.”

“I suppose you aren’t luring me to my doom,” she said, handing the bottle back to him through the open window.

“I’m trying to get you onto the roof to see the stars,” he said. He held out his hand.

“We’re in the middle of the city! The light will block the stars out.”

“We won’t know that for sure unless we go up there ourselves,” Draco said. “Besides, if we can’t see them, we could just make out like teenagers.”

Hermione giggled. “But it’s cold!”

He leaned inside so they were nose-to-nose. “I intend to keep you warm,” he murmured.

Her eyes flicked down to his lips. “Is that a promise?” she whispered back. They stared at each other with dreamy, mischievous smiles. “There he is.”

Draco looked over his shoulder and then back to her, puzzled. “Who?”

“The Draco I’ve missed.” She left it at that. Hermione took his hand and joined him on the fire escape.

He wondered, as they ascended the steps of the fire escape, what she could possibly mean. They had been attached at the hip for nearly three whole days--she didn’t have a chance to miss him! And he had only just opened up to her; they hadn’t gotten close enough in their past for her to grow attached to him. And why would she have wanted to? She couldn’t possibly miss being relentlessly teased.

“What did you mean?” he asked, as they reached the roof. “Which Draco did you miss?”

Hermione stepped over the short wall and onto the gravel-laden flat roof. She rubbed her arms and smiled. “While I admit not missing most facets of our younger selves--”

“I was going to say!”

“--shh!” she giggled, pulling him to the center of the open rooftop. She took his hands in hers. “I missed that tenacity that you had back then.”

He cringed. “I’d hardly call my pig-headedness ‘tenacious’.”

“You have a hard time taking a compliment,” she laughed.

“That was a compliment? Oh. I do apologize. Try complimenting me again, and I’ll practice.” He stepped back from her and tucked his hands behind his back. “Go on, let me have it.”

Hermione crossed her arms and pretended to seriously survey him. “You have excellent shoulders.”

He scoffed. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

“What? I find them to be a striking mix of robust and humble, which are essential qualities in a nice shoulder,” she said, eyes twinkling. Draco nodded thoughtfully, trying to keep a straight face.

“And what of my stride? Do you find it robust?” he paced before her in a mimicry of even the silliest runway-quality struts. Hermione nearly snorted.

“Both robust AND audacious,” she said. She finally gave in to giggles. “Sweet Merlin, you have quite the silly side!”

“Only for you,” he said, pulling her against his chest with a grin.

“You have kind eyes,” she said. She brushed her fingers across his temple, where his skin crinkled when he smiled. Those grey eyes softened and he pressed his lips to her forehead.

“You bring it out in me,” he whispered against her skin. “This is not who I am.”

She linked her hands behind his back and looked up at him. “Who?”

“This giddy adolescent,” he said with a chuckle.

“Now THAT I can believe,” she giggled. “You’ve never been the giddy sort. Maybe you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

He considered her with a slight smile plastered on his face. He noticed how she wrinkled her nose when he stared at her, which told him that she was embarrassed to be admired. He noticed how her curls always seemed most likely to come unwrangled in the evening, when the elastic tie sagged under the weight of her thick mane and allowed little tendrils to escape down her back. He noticed how her brown eyes shone gold when she was tired. He noticed how she curled into the shelter of his chest, how she memorized the muscles in his back with her fingertips, how she fit her forehead into the crook of his neck, at once hiding her face from him and yet letting him feel her comfort. Draco suddenly felt a great responsibility to keep her from harm of any sort. He would read her a thousand books if it meant preventing papercuts, even. No amount of care was too much for what she deserved. He wanted to apparate back to the cottage every night if it meant giving her the ocean every morning. Nothing mattered like Granger--not to him. Not anymore.

How utterly terrifying. How utterly worth it.

If she wanted to stay… if the thought of staying with him didn’t frighten her out of her wits, perhaps he should offer his home while she looked for a new flat. Not the cottage by the sea, but the one in London, here. Where he would be, too. Where they could be together and safe, and he could pay back her forgiveness in tiny acts of gratitude every single day, as long as she would let him. He hadn’t lived with another person in almost ten years, but it seemed worth a try. After all, they had already made it through a weekend confined to a small cottage. She had seen his gaping emotional wounds. She hadn’t run away screaming.

He played with a lock of hair at the nape of her neck. Hermione hummed in contented approval.

“Stay here,” Draco said, rubbing her back. She turned her face into his chest and let out a breath.

“As long as you want. Get your own flat, or don’t. Fill up my bookshelves and take my bedroom for yourself, I don’t care. Just don’t leave.” 

***

“And?” Doctor Jones asked. She was sitting forward on the edge of her chair, pen poised above a pad of paper.

Draco ran a hand through his hair. Just thinking about it made his heart want to beat out of his chest. 

“That woman has a LOT of books, Doc,” he said, and he couldn’t help but grin.

Hermione hadn’t expressly said ‘yes’, but she had kissed him so sweetly that he thought he might die a happy man if that had been his last moment alive. And then they had seen the moon rise over London, and then he had bundled her back inside because it was too chilly to romance someone on a rooftop when there weren’t any stars to distract them.

“My, my,” Dr. Jones said, leaning back in her chair. She smiled. “Honestly, I’ve never seen you look so serene.”

Draco blushed in spectacular Malfoy fashion. “I don’t feel serene. I feel petrified that she’ll come to her senses at any moment.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I have done nothing much to deserve her,” he said. He looked down at his hands.

“Have you spoken to her about the parameters of your relationship?”

“No,” he admitted. He remembered the way she had looked at him when she had stepped back inside, through the window, and smiled.

***

“What?” he asked, closing the window and drawing the deep velvet curtains shut. Hermione shook her head, but her smile remained.

“How do I let you talk me into things so easily?” she asked. “Going to the sea for the weekend, climbing on the roof…”

“Moving in?” he finished for her. He leaned against his bedpost. She nodded.

“You make me sound so devious.”

“You are certainly cunning, but I don’t believe you’re attempting to trick me into anything I don’t already want to do,” she said. “And I don’t think you’re devising a scheme with me in mind.”

“You would be right about that,” he chuckled. “I can’t think straight with you around, let alone plot your doom.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Thought you’d like that.”

“I like you,” she said. She sat on the beautiful quilt that lay over his mattress. And then she yawned, a big, gaping, lioness sort of yawn, which made him like her all the more.

Draco sat beside her on the bed. He gently pulled back the quilt and nodded for her to get underneath it. She crawled up towards the pillows and wiggled beneath the starry blanket. He gently helped her take out the elastic from her hair, so her curls could tumble down around her ears. She smiled sleepily.

He removed his wand from his trouser leg, where he had holstered it inside a tall black sock before they had left the cottage. It seemed like ages ago that they left the seaside, but it had only been that morning. Things were moving so fast, but they just… they felt right.

Draco flicked his wand and the stove dimmed. He turned his back to Hermione and set his wand on a small table beside the bed. “Do you mind… if I sleep in my pants? Will that bother you? You DO have my pyjamas in your possession.”

She held up a finger and wiggled her legs under the quilt. After a little wiggle dance, she produced the pyjama pants from beneath the blanket and tossed them to him. Draco attempted not to turn scarlet as he imagined her trouser-less in his bed. He cleared his throat.

“Right. Thank you.” He quickly shucked off his trousers and replaced them with the pyjama pants. Then, he joined her under the quilt. He lay facing her. 

They both let out a nervous laugh.

“How many girls have slept here?” she asked softly, though he could tell it pained her to ask such a question. She blushed.

He shook his head. “None.”

“Right,” she said, letting go of a bated breath. “Sorry. For asking.”

“It’s all right, Hermione,” he said. He brushed her cheek with his thumb. “I am an ordinary person with sexual desires and the like, but have never conducted such activities here. Nor have I wanted anyone else to see my flat. Only you.”

***

“And what did she have to say to that?” Dr. Jones asked.

“She didn’t say anything. She just smiled as if I had given her a puppy,” he said with a laugh.

“And now she’s staying with you?”

“I suppose she is. Until she tells me otherwise,” Draco said. He shrugged, but his joy was obvious.

Draco and Dr. Jones parted ways for the day with the usual niceties, and a promise that he would return in a week’s time. For once, he hadn’t minded reliving what had happened in a session. The events of the previous evening were burned so clearly in his mind that he could think of nothing else. Especially the end, just before he lost consciousness.

***

Draco held her hand over his heart. Her eyelids were heavy, threatening sleep at any moment.

“And do you imagine you’ll have such… desires for me?” she asked. “Or not?”

He pushed up onto one elbow and smiled. She blushed under his gaze. 

Draco leaned down and kissed her slowly, tugging at her bottom lip. He cupped the back of her head and deepened the kiss, running his tongue along the seam of her lips. She sighed and parted her lips. His tongue stroked hers in a languid introduction. He suppressed a growl at the back of his throat when her arms wrapped around his waist, pressing their bodies together. Gently, he pulled away, resting his forehead against hers.

“Very much,” he whispered. 

Hermione put her hand over his heart. “Well.” She cleared her throat and sounded thoroughly breathless.

“But not tonight. When we both have our wits about us,” he said. He lay back down on the pillow beside her. and she clutched his hand to her chest this time. 

“Goodnight, Draco,” she murmured, eyes closed. She wiggled closer to him.

He squeezed her hand, closed his eyes, and sighed happily.

“Goodnight, ‘Mione.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just.. pure fluff. :)
> 
> Thank you for your patience while waiting for updates! I've been the busiest bee. X


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione find their footing as roommates.

He stared at the marble fireplace in the massive great room, in the heart of his childhood home, a mansion of no mean size, and a former Deatheater stronghold... Now, just an empty chasm. He had long since removed the portraits from the walls, which kept alive the last of the vile Malfoy-Blacks.

After Lucius had passed, Narcissa’s last thread had snapped and she had roamed the halls, calling out to him. It was more than Draco could bear. He had moved them both out nearly eight years ago, and only returned to throw sheets over the furniture and change the locks. But now, he was facing a deadline, and a seemingly impossible task: to catalogue everything left in that vile place and disposing of anything that might prove, in the words of the trust, ‘detrimental to the Malfoy legacy’.

In truth, he didn’t much care if they saw the shackles in the dungeon or his mother’s mad ravings in hidden journals. His reputation couldn’t possibly suffer more in the eyes of the wizarding world. He wanted to part ways with the last vestige of that time, but even standing before that hearth was too much. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

What was he doing here?

He turned. This was the place where everything had changed for him, this very spot. He had stood in that place before the hearth and watched as his aunt pinned Hermione Granger to the ground. And now that girl--that beautiful woman--was in his flat, probably still in his bed.

It didn’t make sense, but having her in his life again, in that way… maybe that was why he could be there at the manor again.

He had lied to her about working at the office all day. But how do you leave a note on a pillow about this? Sorry for leaving before you woke up, I had to go shake up the ghosts.

Draco only had a month to turn in a list of assets to the historic trust before they would turn down the donation. But this was a step. Closer. To whatever the thing was that he was grasping for.

***

When she awoke, Hermione was alone in a grand four-poster bed, with the velvet curtains drawn over the windows to prevent the morning light from sneaking in, and a note was pinned to the pillow beside her. On her nightstand sat a tray with a cup and saucer, a full teapot, and a scone. The note read thus:

 

_Darling,_

_I’ve gone into the office. There have been developments in my case and suffice to say that I have a lot of work ahead of me. I’ll try to be back in time for an early supper._

_Draco_

_ps. I’m loathe to leave you here by yourself all day. Make yourself at home. Rearrange the furniture, eat all the olives, whatever. Be back soon as I can. X_

She yawned. Some alone time would be nice, after everything that had happened in the last few days. Between saying yes to the blind date with Gary and waking up in Draco’s bed, her whole outlook had changed… from desperate, lonely, and depressed, to hopeful. Joyful. And still a little bit depressed, but mostly thankful for the somewhat divine intervention of the tall, cool blond. And divine, he most certainly was.

He was not a neat freak, like she had expected. He appeared to have tidied up a bit while she was sleeping, but in general, his room looked ‘lived in’, and it made it far more comfortable than his sterile living room. Even if she didn’t stay for long, at least maybe she could help him make that room feel cozy, too. It needed some bookshelves, some curtains, and definitely pillows. Once she transferred her boxes over, he could borrow hers. He probably wouldn’t notice anyway; it was clear in which part of the flat he felt most safe.

She threw her legs over the side of the bed and shivered as her toes met cool floorboards. Right… no pyjama trousers. Because she had taken them off the first night, so he could wear them. Even though she probably wouldn’t have minded if he had just slept in his briefs--but that would have been twelve steps too far for how quickly they had come together. She’d only spent two nights in his flat.

Wouldn’t it?

To fall into affection with anyone so quickly, let alone someone whose very presence used to be a torment…

But she was her own woman. If their intimacy had gone beyond the telling of secrets, if that infernal kiss had lasted past reason and logic, she would have had no regrets afterwards. He could never hurt her in the way that left scars. He wouldn’t. Draco was better than that, even if he didn’t quite see his own worth.

Hermione tip-toed to his closet, where she found the pyjama pants, neatly folded on top of his laundry hamper. She pulled them on and did not blush to let her mind wander to where the night could have gone.

‘When we both have our wits about us,’ he had said. Perhaps he had meant to show her that his feelings for her went beyond sex. But that much she already knew. He had never made her feel pressure, never made her feel hunted or preyed upon to satisfy his urges. But he most certainly made her feel wanted. In every small gesture.

She abandoned the scone on the tray (orange marmalade was not her favorite), sipped at the scalding hot tea, and then decided that she ought to clean out her flat while she had the day to herself. She used his fireplace, of course, and flooed back to her flat for what she hoped would be the last time.

It didn’t take more than a few moments to bundle her boxes into a carpet bag with the addition of an extension charm--and she did it all while wearing Draco’s pyjamas.  She was sure to close and lock every window, turn off every light, and leave her key on the fireplace mantle. She had also left a check for the manager for her last month’s payment. She would see if Draco had a mobile muggle telephone that she could use to give her manager a ring later. She imagined that he did, since he worked so closely with muggles in his daily life… which was a funny, slightly odd sentence to say in her head. But a nice one, too. He worked WITH muggles.

As she peered at the empty flat, she felt nothing but relief. Good riddance, and goodbye, to loneliness.

***

He leaned against the doorway of the kitchen. She was humming, standing before the sink with a steaming mug of tea, and gazing out the window at nothing of note. But she looked so relaxed, he didn’t want to alert her to his presence, lest she lose her sense of calm. From the look of things, she had been quite busy all day long… he had barely recognized the place when he arrived. If it weren’t for the note she had left on the front door, he would’ve thought it someone else’s flat. ‘Just added a few touches,’ the note had said. ‘Don’t be alarmed.’

The living room was so perfectly HER. She had lined up her bookshelves along the far wall, placing the books by height order, and grouping them by color. The tomes vacillated from deep blue-greens to browns to reds.

She had also hung navy blue curtains, put down a turkish rug below his sofa and coffee table, and thrown six pillows on the couch--one of which bore the larger-than-life-size face of an english bulldog. She had also lined his mantle with candles, which flickered when he walked past them. She had certainly made good use of her time for the day; truly, she had done nothing those past few days but gild his life in hope.

Just then, she looked over her shoulder at him. Her cheeks turned pink and she looked away again; the humming ceased and she cleared her throat. He stepped forward and put his hands on her hips, pressing his lips against her temple.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said, sliding his hands around her waist. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

“Get done early at the office?” she murmured.

He kissed her cheek again and pulled away so she could turn and look at him. “Didn’t stay very long.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “I went to the manor.”

“Did you? And?” She set her tea on the counter and smoothed the wrinkled lapel of his overcoat.

Draco shrugged. “It hasn’t changed. I stood in the great room for a while. Didn’t get anything catalogued, but at least I went.”

“Hmm.” She seemed focused on his shoulders, which curved towards her. Hermione ran her hands up his arms and clasped them behind his neck.

“It was nowhere near as lovely as my living room, however,” he said.

“I hoped you’d like it,” she smiled, breathing out in relief.

“You’ve made it feel nice. Homey. I like it.”

“It’s just a few things,” she said, bashfully. “And what news from your case?”

He stepped back from her then, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “They didn’t say.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because I asked them not to. I asked to be replaced on the case.” He scratched his cheek in shame. He sighed heavily. His coat felt too tight, then, the air too thin. Hermione gestured for him to shrug out of his coat. She helped him with it and then folded the wool coat over her arm.

“When did that happen?” she asked. She nudged him towards the kitchen chair.

He sat, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees. “After I left. I went to the office, as I said, and I met with the senior partners. I asked for them to take me off the case. I… admitted that I had gotten in a brawl since I hit that man. I did mention that it was self defense, though only as an afterthought,” Draco said. Hermione laid his coat over the back of his chair. “I told them that I did not feel I was fit to serve.”

Hermione knelt at his feet. “But you’re better than ever.”

“I feel better than I have in a long time, mostly thanks to you, but…” he brushed her cheek. “I have a long way to go, Hermione. Far be it from me to advise on a murder case  when I can’t even face my father’s house.”

She cupped his face in her hands. He could hardly look at her. “But you are still a good man,” she said.

He covered her hands with his own. “That is what they said to me.”

Hermione sat back on her heels with a smile. “They want to keep you on, don’t they.”

“They want to keep me on as the lead prosecutor. But I only agreed on the condition that once the trial is over, if we win, I be given the civil suit cases that they usually give to legal aid. The little cases, they deserve good lawyers, too. And I will do my due diligence to be a damned good one.” He sighed, and then looked up at her with a twinkle in his eye. “Why must every conversation we have be so bloody dramatic?”

She laughed, putting her arms around his waist, and pressing her cheek to his chest. He folded his arms around her shoulders. “Our lives will become boring again, soon enough,” she said.

"Yes, I will be back behind a desk as early as tomorrow. And what will you do? To become boring again?” he asked.

“I was thinking… I could help you. At the manor.”

Draco tensed and shut his eyes. “I could not ask that of you--”

“I’m offering.”

“That place holds painful memories for you, too,” he said softly, brushing a hand over her hair.

“Maybe it’s selfish,” she said, looking up at him. “But I think it would be good for me.”

“Why?”

“To see that it’s just an old building, to stop thinking about it every time someone stares at my arm. And then you wouldn’t have to do it alone. Hmm?”

Draco looked down at her. He shook his head once, and kissed her forehead. “Thank you,” he breathed against her skin.

She nodded. “Thank YOU for breakfast.”

“You’re welcome. I should have waited up for you and taken you out for crepes, instead. It would’ve made the whole day more bearable.”

“I didn’t mind, though you should know that I cannot stand orange marmalade,” she said with a giggle. Draco chuckled.

“Noted.”

“And also… if you’re going to charm my tea to stay hot, could you make sure it’s not the temperature of the sun?”

Draco stood and pulled her up with him, laughing. “So ungrateful!”

“And could you not snore so loud--”

He kissed her before she could go on. She smiled against his lips and he lifted her off the ground. Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist and hummed happily. He sat her on the counter. She pulled away, but only enough to speak.

“You called me ‘darling’ in your note,” she murmured.

“Mmm,” he conceded, kissing her again. “You are that.”

“And what should I call you?”

“Whatever pleases you.”

She ran a thumb over his bottom lip, along his cheekbone. “Handsome.”

“Bastard would be more appropriate.”

They broke apart at the sound of a shrill voice in the kitchen doorway. Encased in tweed and brimming with anger stood the one woman Hermione was sure had a sordid past with Draco, one who knew that long-gone side of him well.

Pansy.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pansy puts Draco through the ringer. Hermione remembers the last time she had seen Draco, almost five years previous.

“Why are you here?” Draco asked, stepping in front of Hermione in case Pansy had any wild ideas. Hermione’s fingers curled into the back of his shirt.

“The door was open.”

“It definitely wasn’t,” he said.

“Well. Unlocked, open… whatever.” Pansy smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You really should watch your back when you walk home. You never know who might be following you.”

“Get out.”

“I don’t intend to stay very long,” Pansy said. “But I think I deserve to know why you haven’t spoken to me in almost a week, after walking out on our date.”

“I’ll go,” Hermione peeped. Draco turned to her with a furrowed brow. “I’ll go for a walk.”

“No, Hermione--”

She put a finger on his lips. “If it were me…” she trailed off, but he took her meaning. Hermione hazarded a glance at Pansy, whose arms were folded, talons drumming furiously on her forearms. Hermione pressed against him and practically stuck her tongue down his throat, kissing him thoroughly and passionately. When she pulled back, he tried not to smile at her, but his amusement was still clear.

Hermione hopped off the counter, sidled past Pansy, and grabbed her wand from the fireplace mantle. She stuck the wand up her sleeve and closed the front door behind her. Once Hermione was outside, Pansy stepped closer to Draco, and he immediately took two steps back.

“Relax,” Pansy cackled.

“Can you blame me?”

“For a lot of things, yes.” She trailed a long fingernail along the counter. “So. You’ve ditched me for that rat’s nest with legs. Never thought I’d see you laying in the gutter, but here we are!”

Draco held up a hand. “That’s enough. I am perfectly willing to have a civilized conversation with you that doesn’t involve childish slander.”

“Oh, forgive me! For a minute here, a thought we were talking about the girl you used to call basilisk-bait… the Gryffindor community broom… Mudblood--”

“That was ten years ago! Merlin!”

“Ringing any bells?”

“I treated her like scum! I do not deserve to breathe the same air as her. Does that satisfy you?” He pushed past her and strode into the living room. She followed with an incessant click-clacking of the heel.

“You haven’t changed that much,” Pansy said.

Draco threw up his hands and turned to face her. “I fight every day to be a better man than all that.”

“For what?” she laughed. “You think she’ll fall in love with you?.”

“What I think of her is none of your concern.”

“Oh, I think it is.” Pansy sat on the couch beside the bulldog pillow. “You’ve been following her since the dedication.”

He carded a hand through his hair and tried to force down a blush. “You make it sound like I’ve been stalking her.”

“Haven’t you?”

“No!”

She folded her hands across her lap. “So this has nothing to do with some kind of perverted redemption? Are you sleeping with her because you overheard her say nice words about your father five years ago?”

“I like her,” he growled.

“Oh, I see… you haven’t even shagged the poor witch!” Her piercing laughter hit him in waves and he held up both hands.

“That Hermione Granger is in my bed every night, you can be certain. What happens there is between us and the sheets.”

Pansy stood up, looking spectacularly bored. She smoothed her skirt. “This time last year, I was in her shoes. You’ll grow tired of her.”

“I took her to the cottage.”

Pansy’s face drained of color. Her face betrayed her utter devastation. She stepped closer until he was in arm’s reach and smoothed his shirt collar. He stepped out of reach again, leaving her hand dangling in mid air.

Her voice came out a mere whisper. “You didn’t take me there once. Not in ten years.” She rolled her eyes to keep from crying.

Draco knew it was low to brag the seaside trip. Pansy had wanted to marry him, but it had never felt right to show her his sanctuary by the sea. She hadn’t seemed to want him… just the things that his money could buy. It was no secret that her family had lost everything after the war. He didn’t blame her for trying to preserve the best life possible for herself, but it could never have been with him. The first time they broke up, he had just had to bury his father; while Draco dealt with his mother’s rapid decline, Pansy had done everything she could to convince him that she ought to move into the manor with them. She had actually cried real tears when he told her he was going to move out and sell the place. She would very likely croak if she knew he was merely donating it, now. But the thing about Pansy… she seemed spoiled and shallow, and hung on desperately to all of the horrible ideologies that he had once touted, but he had once seen a side of her worth caring for. She just had no room in her life for guilt, or compassion. She only operated in survival mode. It was fight or flight with her.

Draco sighed. “I’m sorry that you’re hurting.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“Well, I have nothing else to offer you,” he said, softly. He moved past her to the front door and opened it, waiting for her to take her cue. Pansy’s pointy high-heeled boots drove divots into the floor as she stomped towards him.

“See if I don’t go to Rita Skeeter over this,” she seethed. “It would serve you right to be front page fodder with that harpy.” She drove her finger into his chest to make a point. He grasped her wrist firmly.

“You should really reconnect with Ron Weasley,” Draco sighed. “Rita Skeeter has better things to write about.”

“Maybe so. She loves a good fallen hero, and Granger is one of her favorite targets. What will she say when I bring her the news that Granger is slumming it with the likes of you?”

“You won’t. Because I’ll tell her that you hexed Hermione that night at the restaurant.”

Pansy snatched her hand back. She had her wand out and pressed to his throat before he could blink. He swallowed hard. Tears threatened on Pansy’s eyelashes, making her glassy eyes smolder. “I wouldn’t waste my breath on that mudblood bitch,” she said, digging the tip of her wand into his jugular.

Slowly, Draco raised his hand until he could once again grasp her wrist. He pried her fingers off the sixteen inch blackthorn and tossed it to the ground. “I am not worth your energy, Pansy. Let me fade away. Let the wizarding world’s opinion of me alone; it festers enough on its own, the longer I go without making an appearance. There are better men than me in this world.”

Pansy bent to snatch up her wand and the tears finally fell on her pink cheeks. “I never cared that you weren’t nice to me, you know. At least you wanted me.”

Draco rubbed a hand over his face. “Aye,” he said. He had wanted her, selfishly, as a young man. But two people who so loathed the rest of the world should not be together. They had tried so many times to make things work over the last ten years, but it was disastrous every time; both tears and blood had been shed in their many breakups and reconciliations. Sooner or later, they would have been each other’s downfall. He did not tell her that he had once convinced himself, in a quiet moment before the Deatheater uprising, that he might grow to love her. She didn’t deserve to be tortured by that thought as well.

She studied him for a second before shaking her head and bolting out the door. He stood there in the threshold but a moment. Then, he shut the door and briefly considered turning the lock, though he couldn’t remember whether or not Hermione had taken her wand when she left, and he didn’t want to lock her out, too. He knew Pansy wouldn’t try to barge in again. He also knew Hermione would come back. That was the thing about her; he felt he could count on her. She was a sure thing.

He went into the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as it would go, and tried to steam out his demons. Or at least scrub them off his skin.

***

Hermione walked at a brisk pace, hands shoved in her pockets. She wasn’t mad at him, but the fact that Pansy knew where he lived had been too much for her in that moment. First Ron and then Pansy… it was like a soap opera. If Cormac McLaggan showed up too, she would have a conniption.

He had said no girls had ever been to his flat, and she trusted him… right? Of course she did. She also trusted that he would put Pansy off for good. The fact that Pansy had shown up crying insult over Draco abandoning their date in favor of taking Hermione to the hospital… well, she kind of understood. Especially considering that, in the week since the incident, Hermione and Draco had gone from estranged schoolmates to roommates. Who kiss. And sleep in the same bed, and have dramatic conversations about nothing, and call each other ‘darling’. She could see how that might be confusing to Pansy. Hermione came to a dead stop in the middle of the pavement.

What was Draco? Her… boyfriend?

She cringed. That word felt so juvenile. And she couldn’t imagine herself introducing him like that. ‘This is my…’ companion… partner? Partner didn’t feel right, but it was on the right track. Lover? Too romance novel. Romantic male cohabitant bed warmer, more like. Consort. Accomplice. Whatever! He was her person.

She huffed. It was all semantics, and it drove her batty. Pansy had no ‘right’ to him, but she did deserve some sort of explanation, without Hermione around to complicate the conversation. Draco could hold his own with the witch.

Hermione, on the other hand... Dressed in her shorts from the beach, Draco’s pyjama shirt, and clogs, with her wand jammed up her sleeve and no purse, she presented the very image of a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. There was really only one place she could go in such a state.

“Hi sweetie!” Ginny grinned and threw open the door for Hermione. “Have you tired of him already?”

Hermione hugged her friend and sighed. “It’s the parade of exes that I find a bit trying.”

Ginny shut the front door. “Merlin’s left one! Parkinson, too?”

“I understand that she’s peeved,” Hermione said, throwing herself unceremoniously onto the couch. “But I’d really like to spend just one day with him without someone barging in looking for answers.”

“In my defense, I sent a letter in advance,” Ginny said. She wobbled into the kitchen. “So he’s handling it? Did you just storm out?”

“Not STORM, I… waltzed out. Unceremoniously,” Hermione said, “And without a word to the witch. Though I did thoroughly snog him before I left, just for the look on her face.”

Ginny reemerged from the kitchen with a large glass of something pink and fruity. “You’re cruel, Granger,” Ginny said, handing Hermione the drink. Hermione sniffed it.

“Phew! Is there ANY juice in this?”

“Please,” Ginny rolled her eyes. “I know you prefer your vodka ‘unencumbered by extraneous liquids.”

“Your impression of me grows stronger with every passing day.”

“And so the student becomes the master,” Ginny said. She sat on the other end of the couch. “So.”

“So?”

“Have you…” Ginny twirled her finger in the air. Hermione feigned innocence.

“...have I redecorated his flat? Yes. Well, the living room. His bedroom didn’t need any help.”

Ginny cackled and Hermione realized what she had said. “Oh Merlin… I didn’t mean THAT. Good lord, woman, you’d think you and Harry never got intimate, which I know is NOT true because of that time we went camping in the Trossachs.” Hermione took a big gulp of her drink and winced.

“I can’t help if I’m invested in your sex life! You’re in a torrid affair with the last person I ever would have predicted and yet I haven’t seen you look better, which tells me that you will be very satisfied, and therefore less mopey.” Ginny pointed at her. “Besides, you’re wearing his pyjamas. Which is the step before you get to see him naked.”

“I admit that I, too, am looking forward to that part.” Hermione smiled coyly. “Which he assures me will happen.”

“Oh really!” Ginny sat forward.

“When we both have our wits about us,’ he says.”

“Sounds like your wits are present and accounted for.”

Hermione took a long sip of her drink. “I won’t deny that.”

“I wouldn’t believe you even if you did.”

Ginny propped her hand up on the arm of the couch and watched her friend. “Do you remember when we saw him at the dedication of the Monolith, looking like a ghost?”

Hermione remembered much of that day, standing back on the grounds of Hogwarts for the first time in five years. Present and former students had been invited by McGonagall to a dedication of a memorial for the Battle of Hogwarts, in which so many of their friends had died. It was mostly a photo op for the Prophet, to run a week’s worth of front page articles about where key players in the battle were living five years later. Hermione’s photo had been run with the caption “⅓ OF THE GOLDEN TRIO NOW A HEARTLESS SQUIB”. It had featured an image of her in a pea coat buttoned up to her chin, wearing giant sunglasses to mask a black eye, with her arms crossed across her chest to prevent her hands from shaking as she rocked back and forth from her toes to her heels. That was back in the days when she had stopped carrying her wand… when she was pretending to be a muggle. Someone from the Prophet had overheard her explaining her departure from the magical world to Luna Lovegood. Luna had jokingly called her a ‘squib-by-choice’, and the reporter ran with it.

She had seen Draco that day at the very back of the audience, as she looked back for a chance of a hasty retreat mid-dedication. He had looked right at her, turned on his heel, and walked briskly away from the ceremony. Later, during the reception, she had nearly bowled him over trying to reach for the pumpkin juice. Just moments before running headlong into his torso, Luna had informed her that Lucius Malfoy had taken his own life a few months prior, but it hadn’t been written up in the papers. Hermione had mentioned that it was a shame for any person to lose someone like that. And then turned and ran into Draco himself. Neither one of them had said anything, but she remembered blushing furiously and making a beeline for Ginny.

“If only I had known then,” Hermione said, finishing the last of her drink.

“What? That he’s a complete dish?” Ginny asked, holding out her hand to take Hermione’s glass.

Hermione shook her head, handing over her empty glass. She considered her words carefully. “That he was hurting.”

“You were, too.”

“So I was.” Hermione sighed heavily. She shared a smile with Ginny, an unspoken acknowledgement of all they had seen side-by-side, a bond stronger than blood.

“He’ll be worried about you,” Ginny said. Hermione nodded. She stood and gestured for Ginny to embrace her. She hugged her friend tightly.

When Hermione flooed into the living room she shared with Draco, the flat was silent but for the sound of the shower spray hitting the bathroom tiles. There was no sign of Pansy, and there wasn’t a puddle of blood on the floor, so she assumed the conversation had been brief… but it was unlikely painless. She resolved in that moment not to pester him about what had been said. If Draco wanted to tell her what had gone on with Pansy, she would listen. In the meantime, she locked the front door, went to the kitchen, and put a kettle on for tea. She waited patiently for the water to turn off in the bathroom, and for Draco to come share a cuppa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golly. I'm terrible at updating you all. In my defense, I have two chapters to share with you this time around! Whee!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione get to know each other's skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be the smut! Tasteful and demur smut. But smut, nonetheless. ('It's about time!' you say to me.)

She was humming. He could hear the dulcet tones of some familiar tune the moment he shut off the shower. He wanted to rush out to see her, to be sure she knew that he had defended her to Pansy… but there was the matter of having forgotten to bring another change of clothing with him into the bathroom. He pulled a clean pair of briefs from the cabinet above the toilet. Before he exited the bathroom, he peeked out of the door to make sure she wasn’t sitting in the living room. She wasn’t in sight, so he opened the door and carried his bundle of dirty clothing towards the bedroom.

“Draco?” her sweet voice carried from the kitchen.

“Yes?” he replied, freezing in place.

“Won’t you come here?”

“I’m just in my pants.”

“As if I mind!” her voice was colored with amusement. He chuckled and set the clothing on the floor outside the bedroom door. Tentatively, he padded to the kitchen and peeked in the doorway.

Hermione was perched on the kitchen counter with a mug in hand. She beamed at him and beckoned him over, setting the tea on the counter beside her.

“Let me see you,” she said, holding out her hand to him. He stepped forward and took her hand, cradling it between his palms.

He watched her lovely face. “I’m sorry about all that…” he began, but she shook her head.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I went round to Ginny’s for a drink and had a nice visit.” She smiled. “We talked about a few things.”

“Like what?” he asked. He felt self-conscious standing there in only his underpants, but he tried not to show it.

Hermione squeezed his hand. “Do you remember the dedication?”

He nodded, and his heart flipped.

“I remember you there,” she said. She brushed his cheek with her thumb.

“You were kind about my father,” he murmured, looking down. She looked up at him, puzzled. “I overheard you speaking to that Ravenclaw.”

“Luna.”

“That’s the one.”

She smiled. “Was that it? Was that the moment you decided to stop cursing my name?”

He chuckled. “Granger, I stopped cursing your name after you slugged me third year. It was all downhill from there.”

Hermione threw her head back and laughed. She shook her head. The smile held on her lips, and she took in the sight of him. His hair was wet from the shower and shaggy from being toweled off. She traced her fingers across his collar bone. A deep scar ran across his chest, from right collar to the left side of his rib cage, and she winced as she followed the path of the puckered skin. He watched her as she felt the way his scar dipped below his heart.

“Sectumsempra,” he murmured. She nodded. Harry had done it. Without knowing that it would carve into Draco’s skin like a hot knife. She wanted to press her lips to his skin there, to give him a new memory for an old wound, but she held back. For now, she just wanted to memorize his skin with her fingertips.

Her fingers graced his tight abdominal muscles and across his pectorals. Then, over the curves of his shoulders, down his arms, over his palms. She picked up one of his hands and cradled it in her own. Long, slender fingers, with closely-groomed nails. Heavily scarred palms… but not rough. Hermione grazed the pad of her thumb over a particularly nasty looking scar.

“Father’s cane,” he said softly, curling his fingers up to still her hand.

“Turn?” she asked. She released his hands so he could turn his back to her. His tattoos were less pronounced than she expected; two ancient celtic dragons faced off across the muscled expanse, and at the base of his neck, some kind of druidic rune.

“Why the rune?” Hermione asked, following the line it traced into his hairline.

“For protection,” he said, tilting his head down to give her a better look.

“Against?”

“Dementors.”

Hermione’s hand stilled. “This is the spirit warrior, isn’t it?”

He looked over his shoulder at her with a soft smile. “Never could cast a patronus charm.”

She smiled back at him, but felt her heart drop. Of course, it had been rumored that Deatheaters couldn’t conjure a patronus, with so little pure happiness to go on… she just hadn’t ever thought about what that really meant. No way to save your own soul, not really. Even the rune would’ve just prolonged the Kiss; nothing could truly ward off a Dementor like the patronus.

“It was my second tattoo,” Draco said. He looked down again.

“You were young, then.”

“I was.”

She tapped his shoulder and he turned back towards her slowly. “Finished?” he asked.

Hermione nodded. He braced his hands on either side of her body. “My skin tells no lies,” he said.

“We both have battle scars,” Hermione said. She fiddled with the hem of her shirt. Draco raised his eyebrows in silent question, and stepped back as she hauled the fabric over her head. She sat there, on the kitchen counter, in just her brassiere and shorts, and pressed her eyes together so tightly that she saw spots. It only felt fair, to bare her biggest scar to him again, after making him disrobe for her. But he was the first man to see her scar since the man who had created it.

He said nothing, but she felt his finger on her forehead, smoothing a deep wrinkle of concern that formed between her eyebrows. He kissed her there, gently. She shivered as his fingers mimicked her journey on his body, beginning first with her collar bone. He trailed one finger down her sternum, where it reunited with his other hand on her ribs… on her burn scar. She had lost most of the feeling in the skin that scarred, but sitting there, with Draco memorizing her battle… her skin tingled where he touched. He growled deep in the back of his throat and she felt him shift. She was afraid to open her eyes, but she guessed that he had stepped further away from her. He had removed his blessed hands from her waist… until they settled there once more. And then his lips grazed her marred skin, and Hermione gasped. A lump formed at the back of her throat. He pressed his cheek to her side, gentle breaths tickling across her belly. She brought her hand up to his hair and cradled his head against her skin. He grasped her wrist gently and pulled it away from his hair until her forearm was level with his mouth. She had to lean forward to do so. She opened her eyes just as he pressed his lips to the ugly letters on her arm. There was no way to stop the tears, now.

He pulled her off the counter, down to her knees, and into his lap, cradling her against his chest as she silently shook.

“This is how we should always be,” he whispered into her hair. “Skin to skin, with the doors locked.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck and breathed in as slowly as her fitful sobs would allow. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Whatever for?”

“For losing it,” she said, sniffling. "It's Ginny's fault; she's the one who gave me vodka! It always makes me weepy."

“I am not wearing a shirt for you to soak in tears, so you really have nothing to be sorry for,” he said.

Hermione giggled, despite the onslaught of catharsis. “I had meant for it to be romantic, and then I just lose my marbles over a silly scar,” she said, rubbing her eyes. The deluge of tears was mostly finished, and she felt extremely foolish sitting on his lap, crying over a stupid scar.

Draco pulled back so he could look in her face. He wiped tear trails off her cheeks with his thumbs. “It’s not silly. It’s part of you.”

“But I hate it.”

“You’re allowed,” he said with a smile. “That’s how you feel. And I hate the one who gave it to you. I love your skin, Hermione. Do you know that you have the softest skin?” He ran a finger down her arm slowly.

Hermione stilled his hand with hers and brought it to the clasp on her brassiere, which fastened in the front. He gently undid the slide clasp, releasing the fabric. He stroked the spot between her breasts where the clasp had pressed, creating a small heart-shaped indent. Draco pressed two fingers to the strap on her shoulder in silent question.

“Yes,” she whispered. He pulled the strap down, causing the cup of her brassiere to fall away. Likewise, the other strap followed. Draco looked like a man who had seen Valhalla… and he acted accordingly. He leaned forward to kiss her, but stopped just shy of her mouth.

“Close your eyes?”

She did so. He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, and then to her eyelids. His lips found the curve of her jaw, the hollow at the base of her neck, the freckle beneath her collar bone. She breathed out slowly as he pressed his forehead to her shoulder.

“Darling.”

“Mm?” She could hardly form words.

“I’m going to carry you into the bedroom; I’m afraid I’ve stranded us on the kitchen floor.”

Hermione opened her eyes to meet his smiling face. “I’m yours for the carrying,” she said. Draco swept her up with one arm beneath her knees, and another behind her back. He kicked the bedroom door shut behind them. He set her against the plush pillows.

She felt suddenly much more exposed this way, even though they had been sleeping next to each other in that very bed. She watched Draco’s shoulders as he flicked his wand, modifying the charm on the fireplace so the room would warm up. Her wits were certainly about her now.

Sensing her gaze, he looked up at her. His whole face lit up. He leaned up towards her and she met him at the edge of the bed, kissing him so gently that he groaned. She smiled against his mouth.

Hermione sat back suddenly with wide, delighted eyes. “Draco? Will you try something? For kicks?”

“After that kiss, I will try whatever you ask me to, no matter how potentially embarrassing or dangerous,” he said, huskily.

She smiled. “Try to make a patronus. For me, right now.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. He twirled his wand between his fingers and leaned towards her once more. “Kiss me again and I’ll do it.”

Hermione leaned down and captured his bottom lip, teasing the tip of her tongue against his. Draco panted, dropping his wand to wrap his arms around her. He was acutely aware of her nipples pressing into his chest. He ghosted his hands across her back and up her sides, grazing the sides of her breasts with his thumbs. When she gasped, he nuzzled her nose and pulled back. They shared a conspiratorial smirk, half-lidded and turned on, both. She nodded towards his dropped wand.

He rolled his eyes but he reached for his wand. “Remind me?”

“Swish, flick, ‘expecto patronum’, and then poof,” she said. She leaned back against the pillows with an expectant grin.

“Poof, huh?” he grumbled, holding out his wand.

“Don’t forget to think about the happiest moment of your life!”

He froze and his head snapped to her. Half naked, blushing, smirking… she was a goddess. This was the happiest he could remember being in his entire existence. If that couldn’t make a furry creature burst forth from his wand---anyway, it would do nicely. Conjuring a patronus definitely wasn’t going to work, but the thought would do.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat and swished his wand. “Expecto Patronum!”

A blue wisp shot out of the end of his wand. It didn’t dance around him or take any particular form, but it HAD worked. His eyes widened and he sat back, aghast. He looked at Hermione, who had a hand over her mouth and was laughing. He forgot his wand on the floor and dove for her. She squealed as he pinned her to the pillows with a grin.

“I knew you could do it!” she giggled in between kisses.

Draco slid a hand up her stomach and cupped her breast. Her laughter quieted into a sultry sigh. She ran her hands down his back until her fingertips met the waist of his briefs. Draco hummed against her temple as she pushed his briefs off his hips. He kicked them off and touched the button on her shorts. Hermione nodded.

He knelt beside her and unbuttoned her shorts. He lowered the zipper and pulled them down her long legs. Her lace knickers were the last to go, and he took them off with reverence for the silky black fabric. He snaked up her body, settling between her knees. He was beyond ready for her, lost in the feeling of her skin pressed to his, and her gentle hands wandering down his back.

“Are your wits about you?” he whispered against her lips.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, oh Gods.”

He pressed his lips to hers for what felt like the millionth time and joined their bodies fully. He savored the delicious heat of her, the delirious joy of having her naked beneath him. They went slowly, hips undulating together until they found a partnered rhythm. Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist and threaded her hand in his hair as he moved inside her. She gasped, and he devoured her sighs. They lost their wits one after the other, with each other’s names on their lips.

Well spent, they lay in the middle of the plush bed, Draco’s head beneath her chin and her hands lazily playing with his hair. She giggled, and he chuckled at the feeling of her laugher beneath his head. He looked up at her.

“This is how we should always be,” she whispered. “Skin to skin.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mistaken identity leads Draco and Hermione to ally themselves with one person they've been trying hard to avoid.

He sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. She had thought him his father, from some twenty-odd years ago, and no manner of pleading with her could convince her that he was not that man. Sure, he had let his hair grow over his ears in the last few months, but it had never been his intent to emulate his late father. Let the hair grow long, it’s only hair after all… right? Hermione’s fingers seemed to find themselves frequently tangled in his silvery locks, and the wind tossed it about, and he had developed a tick of pushing it out of his eyes like some teenage boy-bander. He was oddly fond of having floppy hair; perhaps it was the deep departure from his well-groomed youth. Regardless, his quarter-life-crisis hairstyle had resulted in an unfortunate mis-identification. Taken for his father, a man he could hardly remember anymore, but to curse his name.

**  
** The hair must go, he thought. Only, it seemed dangerous to attempt a magical cut, as the only spell he knew to do such a thing had resulted in deep, hellacious cuts to his torso, care of Potter. He was rubbish with a straight razor, so that wouldn’t do. Perhaps, he thought, I ought to just pop down to the establishment downstairs--no. No, there was a certain safety in being anonymous in your own neighborhood. Best not patronize the barber on the first floor. He could probably find a pair of scissors--

**  
** “Draco?” She called, as the front door opened and shut.

**  
** “In here.” He rubbed his face and sat up in anticipation of her entrance. How comforting, just to hear his name from her lips. It meant she was home, and he hadn’t invented her in a fever dream. He had gone to see his mother in order to tell her about a wonderful woman who helped him not to fear old ghosts. It wouldn’t have mattered that she was Muggle-born; Narcissa would have only cared that he felt loved, or so he had thought. ‘I’ve hardly had time to get ready,’ she had said at the sight of him, brushing a hand over her shorn hair. ‘You could’ve told me you were going to be early, Lucius.’

**  
** “Hello,” Hermione said sweetly.Her cheeks were pink, and the baby hairs around her face had been curled upwards by insistent wind gusts. Draco said nothing, but he held his arms out to her. She came to him and sat on his knee, tucking herself into the sanctuary of his chest. She nuzzled her nose against his neck.

**  
** “Have you been smoking cloves?” she asked. She breathed deeply against his lapel.

**  
** “St. Mungo’s has been warding off a plague of nargles with clove incense, at the request of Healer Lovegood,” Draco said.

**  
** “You went to see her,” she said. He knew she didn’t mean Luna. She sat back to look at him. “How was she?”

**  
** Draco looked at her knees, which were slung over his leg and crossed. “She called me ‘Lucius’,” he said. Hermione breathed out a sharp burst of surprise. “I wish she hadn’t known me from Adam. It would’ve been better than… than--”

**  
** She touched his lips with her fingertips. He grasped her hand and pulled it away from his mouth. “It was the hair. My stupid Malfoy inheritance.”

**  
** She threaded her fingers through his foppish coif and tugged gently. “I like it.”

**  
** “I want it gone,” he murmured into Hermione’s shoulder, resting his forehead against her collarbone.

**  
** “I’ll miss it,” she said. She carded her hand through his hair until she could cup the back of his head. She coaxed him to look at her with a light tug. “But I would chop it all off for you, if you asked.”

**  
** “Would you? Please.”

**  
** It didn’t take very long. Just a few minutes at the mercy of her sewing shears and his locks were cropped close to the skull, with only a bit of length left on top, in case he ‘needed to look professional’. She had insisted on that concession. The platinum hairs gathered in wispy clumps at his feet. It was only hair, and it would grow back, but it felt like a burden shed.

**  
** Hermione lead him to the shower to rinse off any errant hairs, and turned the water on to heat up. Then she left him alone with the reflection of man who was unfamiliar. Without the hair to soften his cheekbones, he looked older. No hint of boy, just those wide Black-family eyes. But unlike his father, his eyes were wrinkling at the corners, and he almost had smile lines around his mouth--or he would soon, if he didn’t mess things up with Hermione. In her capable hands, he did not look wild or unkempt, or dangerous. She had done a fair job at transforming him into someone entirely… gentle looking. But it wasn’t just the haircut that did it.

**  
** She centered him, reset him, patched him up. She was the very best of him. Far be it from him to call his visage spectacular, but for once, he could look himself in the eye. Shame was only a distant flicker. The face of this man could be trusted by muggle clients and wizards alike. He could show this face in a courtroom. He could stand beside the lovely Hermione Granger as a changed man. He suddenly felt as if he wanted nothing more than for the world to know of his attachment to her. He wanted to be seen with her, among people who knew them as a couple--as the man who loved her. As the former Death Eater. As the exiled heir of Slytherin, as a Muggle-sympathizer, as whatever the Daily Prophet wanted to say about him. He was so very proud to be with Hermione, and the world needed to know how deeply she was loved… how easy it was to love her.

**  
** But it seemed a tad silly to just stroll arm-in-arm through Hogsmeade of a Sunday afternoon; the second coming of the Gryffindor prodigy and ⅓ of the Golden Trio, accompanied by her tame snake, ought to be a more subtle affair. They both deserved a reintroduction to the wizarding world, but it must be done with grace. Not a bawdy bar sighting reported by a paparazzo, or a blind tip-off to Rita Skeeter. A society event. An elegant event. An event worthy of Hermione, with just a smidge of trademark Malfoy glamour. The Malfoy family was at least respected for their exquisite fashion, if nothing else, and seeing Hermione in a gown purchased on his dollar--perfectly tailored to her goddess’ form--was a thought that made his heart race. But something else must be the focus of the event, some sort of cause. Not just a lavish party to show off his money. As if he hadn’t spent most of his youth flaunting his wealth in her face. She didn’t need to be reminded of what a privileged arse he used to be. But throwing her a celebration up to his standards of glamour would very likely mortify her. It had to be an event where neither one of them were personally the direct focus, but over which he would have full control. A benefit, or an auction--no. A dedication.

**  
** He would hold a dedication gala for the historic trust, upon the donation of the Manor. And he would enlist Hermione’s help with the planning. And he would get her to Madame Malkin’s for a personal fitting tomorrow. And he would purge the Manor of it’s ghosts.

**  
** “Hey,” she whispered with a soft tap at the bathroom door. The steam had enveloped the room and obscured the mirror, and he was still fully clothed. The door opened a crack and she peeked in. “Are you a statue?”

**  
** He smiled. She sidled in wearing her robe. “You haven’t gotten very far,” she smiled, touching his shirt buttons.

**  
** “I’ve been preoccupied.” He rubbed his cheek. “And I’ve had a wild idea, but I don’t know if you’ll approve.”

**  
** “You’re wanting to move to an American nudist colony and you want to know if I’m interested in coming along?” She went to work on his buttons gingerly.

**  
** He shrugged out of his shirt once she had unbuttoned it fully. “Not exactly. It’s perhaps equally as wild.” Draco divested himself of his own pants and socks. “I want to hold a gala at the Manor, for the dedication.”

**  
** Hermione raised her eyebrows. “You’re right, that’s pretty wild.”

**  
** “I feel altogether ridiculous proposing this idea in my pants,” he cleared his throat. “But. We can hold a fundraiser for House Elves or St. Mungo’s, something to bring wizards and witches of all sorts together.”

**  
** She crossed her arms over her chest. “And people will presumably see us together at this gala… that doesn’t bother you?” She looked down at her feet. He could see what she assumed: that he couldn’t possibly want to be seen with her at a public event.

**  
** Draco cupped her cheeks. “Darling, I am far from bothered. I need you to be there beside me for the dedication. But I don’t want Us to be the focus of the event. Merlin knows what the Prophet will say.”

**  
** A funny look crossed her face, from puzzled to absolutely mischievous.

**  
** “What?”

**  
** “Why do we care what the Prophet says about us?” she asked softly. She linked her arms around his neck. “Ron and Pansy both threatened to go to Rita Skeeter like her knowing about Us would be worse than an Unforgivable curse. Why?”

**  
** “Well…” He stopped. He couldn’t think of a good reason. If they had seen one another during their days at Hogwarts, they would’ve been a topic of gossip until the next Potions accident singed off someone’s eyebrows. And then the news of their relationship would’ve faded into whispers, until eventually people just stopped caring. Now that ten years had passed since the war, would anyone still care about blood politics?

**  
** “Perhaps because she used to write rude things about Hogwarts students?” he suggested.

**  
** “How brave! Writing gossip about twelve-year-olds as if the world only turned because Harry Potter sneezed.”

**  
** “To be fair, it probably did,” Draco laughed. Hermione giggled, untying her robe and slipping into the shower before Draco.

**  
** He was in an altogether better mood after being naked with Hermione in the shower, and as they toweled off, he couldn’t help but smile at her. She grinned as if she had a brilliant idea.

**  
** “I have a positively wild idea, but I don’t know if you’ll approve…”

***

**  
** Harry yawned. Hedwig had abruptly woken him up by dropping the morning’s mail onto his face. At 5 am, no less. Bloody owl was getting more precise with her aim as the years wore on, and slightly vindictive, too. He had forgotten to leave the window unlatched, so the poor bird had flown down the chimney. She was not pleased. Naturally, she perched on the bed post above Harry’s head and shook soot onto his face. He sat up.

**  
** “Awe, Hedwig!” He wiped his face on his sleeve, only to catch a glimpse at the paper on his lap. It was the Daily Prophet, a paper that was delivered daily despite the fact that Harry had tried several times to cancel his subscription. Thus, the gossip of the Wizarding World (which was mostly adolescent-level gossip about which Hogwarts Professors had been seen at the Hog’s Head together) was deposited by his beloved, if not moody, snowy owl. Today’s edition looked strange.

**  
** Instead of a normal headline that was four times the size of the article font, the front page merely bore a formal invitation. It read thus:

_All magical persons, be they human or otherwise, are hereby cordially invited_

__

_by Master Draco Malfoy and Ms. Hermione Granger_

__

_to a gala_

__

_to be held in three weeks hence on December 24th_

__

_for the benefit of the Ministry of Historical Preservation and the Department of Landmarks_

__

_to be held at the Manor formerly owned by the family Malfoy_

__

_on the occasion of the Manor’s dedication to the historic trust._

__

_There will be an auction of the estate, with a dedication ceremony and ball to follow._

__

_Please observe white tie dress etiquette._

__

_All inquiries or RSVPs may be directed to Rita Skeeter, gala director._

“Bloody hell,” Harry breathed. He rubbed his face. “She’s really done it.”

**  
** Ginny groaned and rolled over to look at him with bleary eyes. “What has she done?”

**  
** Harry handed the paper to Ginny. She held it close to her face (as it was hard to see through bleary eyes), and scanned the invitation. She clasped her hand over her mouth with a laugh.

**  
** “Merlin. She’s really in love with the poor sod!” Ginny giggled. “Enough to pull something this brazen, anyway.”

**  
** “I suppose they must really be serious about each other.”

**  
** Ginny let the paper fall beside her on the bed. “We must go, Harry.”

**  
** “Oh, there’s no question of our being there,” he chuckled. “I only wish I knew what she had up her sleeve.”

**  
** “Why do you say that?” Ginny asked, propping herself up on her elbows.

**  
** “This seems calculated, as if they have an announcement to make to the wizarding world, or something, and just having it printed up in the Prophet isn’t enough.”

**  
** “I don’t think so,” Ginny laughed. “She wouldn’t go through all the trouble just to make an announcement.”

**  
** “So you think this is a genuine benefit hosted by our beloved Hermione,” Harry clarified.

**  
** “Yes. It can’t be easy for Draco to walk away from the Manor after all this time, no matter what happened there. And she loves him, or she wouldn’t put herself out there like this. Maybe this is her way of controlling the tone of the dedication--by presenting her and Draco as a united front. By bringing Rita Skeeter in, not just for publicity, but to plan the whole event. She has made it very clear that this is the event of the year. You’ll be hard-pressed to find a single wizard who doesn’t want to find out why. She’s a bloody genius.”

**  
** “Thereby making it clear that this isn’t an event meant for Malfoy to flaunt his money.”

**  
** “Exactly. So…” Ginny turned onto her side and smiled. “We’re going to Madame Malkins today?”

**  
** Harry leaned down and kissed the very end of her nose. “We had better find truly magnificent robes so we can stand beside Hermione at this crazy thing.”

**  
** “Do you think she can make something that flatters me?” Ginny asked. Harry wiggled down so he was laying nose-to-nose with her.

**  
** “We won’t leave her shop until you feel beautiful, Gin.”

**  
** She just smiled, brushing his shaggy fringe off his forehead. Then, she saw the soot all over his pillow and groaned once more.

**  
** “Hedwig!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gasp! A wild update appears!
> 
> I'm in the middle of moving. I went three weeks without internet access. I work constantly. I'm sorry!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco catalogue the contents of the Manor, but the occasion brings up their shared painful past.

They arrived at the gates of the manor hand-in-hand. There was no other way to arrive except by apparition; Draco had closed the floo network on his last visit, and the pathway to the manor was obscured by charms and curses so ancient, Merlin himself would be hard-pressed to break through. Hermione swallowed hard, and pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Draco squeezed her hand and she looked up at him. He had a bag slung over his shoulder as well, full of tools, and the look on his face was that of trepidation, for what she might be feeling. But she smiled, and he smiled back, and they pushed through the wrought-iron gates together.

The shrubberies along the grand front walkway had remained perfectly trimmed since the Malfoys vacated, thanks to a charm, but they took the form of hooded figures… as if Death Eaters still stood watch over the entrance. Hermione stopped walking and reached into her sleeve for her wand. With a silent spell and a flick of her hand, the shrubs became swirled trees, which drastically improved the view of the house. Draco added his own touch: tiny twinkling lights. For the gala, he told her, though it really was for Hermione’s benefit. He loved the look on her face whenever she saw faerie lights; full of wonder, she nodded at the much-improved facade. The peaks of the house still loomed with their gothic spires, but the shimmering front walkway cast a golden glow on the stones.

When they had spoken to Rita about arranging the gala, she had nearly burst with excitement, pledging a workforce of hundreds of Prophet employees to help the event run smoothly. As far as Rita Skeeter or the Daily Prophet was concerned, this gala was worth their support and investment; the newspaper’s treasurer had apparently agreed to fund a full orchestra for the ball, as well as a completely new set of drapes for the entire manor. Every single window in the entire mansion would be re-draped in blue velvet. The blue had been Hermione’s idea; a light blue, to brighten the rooms and disassociate any Slytherin influences.

He hadn’t yet discussed it with Hermione, but Draco didn’t care if this gala put him into bankruptcy. He was not going to spare a single cent. He had already sent owls to seven separate catering companies, ordered a hundred cases of champagne, and arranged an agreement with Madame Malkin that any wizard who wished to attend the gala, but didn’t have the capital for the white tie dress robe code, would be merely added to his tab.

Draco didn’t know how else to plan such an event, other than to throw his money at it and hope it was a success. All of the money from the auction would go to a charity of Hermione’s choice (a choice she had yet to make based on having upwards of six ideas), and he wanted the auction to be very successful… but for that to happen, people would have to enjoy themselves. A fancy evening would certainly be a start, but it had to be an experience that inspired people to purchase the former belongings of a Death Eater’s family. Perhaps he needed to order more champagne…

“Should we go in, do you think?” Hermione asked with a giggle, tugging on his hand. “Or shall we just stare at it?”

“Staring at it might work,” he laughed. “But just in case, we had better go in. But…” Draco stepped up the first step of the staircase and turned to look down at her. “If you want to leave at any point, if it becomes too much… just tell me. We’ll leave immediately. I’ll drop everything.”

Hermione stood up on her tip-toes and kissed him. “I’ll tell you if it does. Same goes for you.” 

“Deal.” Draco tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and the ascended the stairs together.

“Where shall we start?” Hermione asked, once they stood in the grand foyer.

“Let’s take a walk through the whole place and mark all the furniture that is going to be auctioned. Did you bring the Quick-Quotes-Quill?”

Hermione fished the green-feathered quill and note pad out of her bag. “Yes. Though it took a fair bit of experimentation to remove the charm Rita had put on it. She did warn against speaking of anything too personal while it’s activated.”

He chuckled. “I shan’t whisper anything naughty to you, then, for at least the next few hours.” He winked.

“How ever will you manage?” she laughed.

They began in the guest wing, the least sentimental part of the great house, and coincidentally the section with the least to auction. The guest bedrooms were expensively furnished in that the beds and armoires and desks were hand-carved from rare Italian walnut, but there were only four rooms therein, and thus only sixteen pieces that needed to be marked for auction. The rugs were all full of snake imagery, and were accounted for under a second, separate list: to be burned.

Draco and Hermione continued on to Lucius and Narcissa’s suite, which Draco had mostly purged when they had vacated the Manor. But there was a fine claw foot tub dating back to Louis XIV’s reign in the bath, which was sure to be the crown jewel of the whole collection. Draco was relatively certain that the marble bath had never been used, not by his parents anyhow. The massive mahogany bed in their bedroom went onto the burn list, to become what Hermione called ‘burniture’.

They spent rather a long time in the library. Though it would have been impossible to catalogue every single book on the shelves in the two weeks they had, let alone in one day, Draco discovered that the tomes were at least grouped by subject, which made categorizing them easier. Hermione decided against keeping any of the books, herself. Any section in reference to the Dark Arts went under the burn list; everything else was to be auctioned as a bulk collection from ‘the personal library of Narcissa Malfoy’, in the hopes that his mother’s name would make the collection more enticing. Draco only kept one book for himself: a journal that his mother had kept during her pregnancy. He wasn’t positive that he wanted to read it, but it would be the last bit of her he had to cling to, after death finally took her someday.

It was in Draco’s old room that either one of them first felt the slightest bit of anxiety. None of his personal trinkets remained, but the bedsheets were rumpled as if he had just awoken. If it weren’t for the thick layer of dust over the wrinkled silk, of course.

“This was your space, then,” she said softly, sitting on the window seat, which puffed a cloud of dust as soon as she touched it. Draco nodded, leaning against a bed post. He looked down at the rug.

“It was as close to a sanctuary as I could find, if such a thing is possible, here. This was the one place in the world that I could be totally alone.” He sat down on the bed. “I’ve been locked in here for days on end, when Death Eaters filled the house, for my own safety. Father never liked spending time in here, which perhaps added to its appeal, and Mother used to sit where you’re sitting now for hours on end, when she thought I was asleep. And more times than I can count… I resisted the urge to push my dresser in front of the door, set it on fire, and burn the place down with me in it.” He toed the rug with his boot.

Hermione stood and reached her hand out to him. He took her hand, rubbing her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “What are you feeling now?” Hermione asked.

“Like I want to move on,” he said, smiling sadly.

“We can catalogue the loo next, if you like.”

Draco laughed heartily. “Oh, I love you, Granger—“ His laughter halted suddenly and he looked at her with a sheepish, embarrassed smile. She stepped closer and cupped his cheek. Her eyes shone, but she didn’t cry. She smiled. “Please say something,” he whispered.

Hermione leaned down and pressed her lips to his gently. “I am in love with you, in case it wasn’t evident by my mere presence,” she giggled.

“You’re uncomfortable. We can go for the day—“

“No,” she shook her head. “My discomfort is exactly why we must stay and finish our task. And then once this whole bloody gala is over, we’ll never think of this place again.”

“Is that a promise?” he asked.

Hermione hugged him tightly around the neck, and his arms coiled around her waist. She had to crouch to reach him, but he bore her weight and buried his face in her neck. They stayed that way for a long while, while he whispered something into her hair that sounded like, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’

Draco went into the great room alone. They hadn’t moved any of the furniture in the rest of the house during their cataloguing tour, but Draco levitated all of the furniture in the great room to one side, furthest from the fireplace. He didn’t want the room to look a thing like it had that night when his aunt had tortured her. He quickly made note of the furniture to auction, and then he rolled up the rug that she had laid on—bled on—almost ten years ago, and marked it to be burned. When the room was cleared, he brought her in from the dining room, where she had been cataloguing china.

She let out a long sigh as she crossed the threshold.

“Okay?” he asked, squeezing her hand.

She released his hand and stepped up to the massive fireplace. Her fingertips traveled the length of the marble mantel, remembering the iron candlesticks that used to loom there. She turned back to look at Draco, who stood quite near to where Bellatrix had pinned her to the floor. His face was pained.

“You had just such a look on your face all those years ago,” she murmured. “But you stood here instead.”

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes to block the sudden flood of guilt that stung behind his eyelids.

“I would not change it. If you hadn’t had that look, if I hadn’t seen the fear in your mother’s eyes and the exhaustion in your father’s… I wouldn’t have made it. She would have ended me. But I saw in you what I felt.” She smiled sadly. “And now I can see how I must have looked, laying broken just there.”

“You didn’t look broken,” he growled. Tears betrayed him, running down his sharp cheekbones. “You were dead. Or going to be. There wasn’t anything I could do.”

“You must stop blaming yourself for what turned out all right in the end. No—not right, just… you wouldn’t have found me again. If you had lashed out at her. If you had tried to stop her, you would’ve been gone in a flash of green light. We’re here now because of everything horrid that happened. How can you regret what lead us to this?”

Draco wiped his face furiously on his sleeve. “You have a way of making me feel like an idiot, Granger.”

She blushed, ashamed. “I am sorry; I didn’t mean to sound so condescending—“

“Hush,” he said. He stepped to her and folded her against his chest with a sniffle. “You’re right.”

“I am?” she asked against his shirt.

“You always are.”

“And that makes you feel like an idiot?”

He shook with laughter, despite the overwhelming guilt that still wracked his chest. “Constantly.”

She looked up at him. “I don’t want to make you feel like an idiot, Draco.”

“Don’t you dare try to apologize to me for being a logical and intelligent and compassionate witch,” he said. He kissed her forehead.

“But I make you feel bad about yourself—“

“That’s my ego’s fault, not yours. It bruises easily.”

“Your ego needs to eat more iron,” she said with a glint in her eye.

“Yes, more… Herm-irony.”

“Did you work really hard on that one?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

Draco kissed the end of her nose and winked. “Listen, it’s hard to make puns with your name. I think I deserve credit for thinking of that on the spot.”

“You’re the king of puns!”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” Draco said, though he laughed when he said it. Hermione stroked his cheek and over his bottom lip. He kissed her. “Thank you. For coming here.”

She kissed him back and he lifted her off the ground. “I don’t want to think about this place anymore,” he said into her hair. She ran her fingertips across the nape of his neck.

“Once the gala is over, you’ll have your trial, and we will focus on other things,” she said. “Like expanding your wardrobe to fit my clothes, too. Though, to be honest, you have at least twice as many clothes as I.”

“Whatever you want, you daft witch,” he chuckled.

They completed their long catalogue of the items being put up for auction (though not without a significant amount of editing the Quick-Notes-Quill’s horribly wobbly account of their conversation in the great room), and sent the notes off to Rita Skeeter. Before they knew it, two weeks had flown by, without them being able to account for the time. The gala was upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gala is next! I will *attempt* to get it posted on Dec. 24th (later today, coincidentally), since the gala is supposed to take place that day. Happy Christmas, Harry! - to quote Ron.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drama unfolds at the gala, which allows Draco and Hermione to show their true colors.

She wore black. The plunging neckline of the corset bodice ended at the base of Hermione’s sternum; alluringly low, and yet her breasts did not seem at risk of escaping. The peril of the skirt, however, was in the way it clung to her hips, showing off every muscular ripple, without pulling her skin into unflattering rolls. Draco admired the way the hem drifted just above her high-heeled shoes, which were armored in jagged crystal. She certainly presented a striking picture of dangerous elegance. The long sleeves of her dress drew the eye up her arms, while the gossamer fabric draped across her shoulders and boldly displayed her collarbone. Her neck was bare, however. An oversight on his part, Draco thought. He should have bought her something for the occasion. He could imagine just such a bauble for her pretty neck, something large but not outlandish. Simple, like a single ruby to match her gothic ensemble.

In truth, she looked positively vampiric, but then again, so did he. Black on black on black, as always. Hermione’s suggestion that he wear a velvet coat had proven to be an excellent choice (though not quite practical for the stifling heat, with all those warm bodies packed into the ballroom). He felt dapper in the custom coat, and it took him ages to realize that there was a subtly embroidered border around the edges. It was tasteful, but expensive-looking, and far more exciting than the stuffy suits his muggle colleagues sported at state events. Hermione had been adamant that he appear to be her match, to make it absolutely clear to all in attendance where they stood, without them having to hold hands or kiss in a room full of strangers.

The Manor was indeed packed with witches and wizards from all over, many of whom were unknown to either Draco or Hermione. It was a public relations nightmare, in Rita Skeeter’s opinion. Guests were registered for an auction paddle and number as they entered the Manor, but no one was really certain how many would show up by the end of the night. It was highly possible that they would run out of food, or champagne, or that a fight would break out in the crowd. Because of the sheer record-setting number of attendees, Rita suggested that Draco and Hermione sequester themselves in the library, where the auction would be taking place, until the ball began, to insure that all of the furniture was put up for the bid amount they had agreed upon. And also because Draco had expressed his fears about a certain number of former Death Eaters who might attend. By the time the bell rang for the auction to begin, there were several infamous wizards sitting in the library with their number paddles ready.

Harry and Ginny arrived just before the auction began, but managed to squeeze their way to the front of the crowd and take their seats beside Hermione. Draco had decided to be the auctioneer, so Rita could make sure everything else ran smoothly. To Draco’s surprise, the crowd was far more eager about the deeply-discounted riches than they were about the furniture belonging to a former Death Eater. The beds from the guest wing went to a Bulgarian prince’s envoy, while the Ministry of Historical Preservation itself purchased every single Malfoy desk at twice their worth. The grand dining table and chair set was purchased on behalf of an orphanage by an anonymous donor, who Hermione later found out was Minerva McGonagall. Rita Skeeter’s assistant bought the French claw foot marble bathtub on her behalf.

Draco had been careful not to say where in the house each piece had come from; his goal was to remove the personal connection entirely. That chance was taken from him the moment his own former bed came up on the auction block. Pansy Parkinson stood, draped in fuchsia satin, no longer a pug-faced child. She held up her paddle when Draco announced the opening bid.

“I’ll double it,” Pansy hissed. The room hushed. Hermione’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach, and she didn’t dare look at Draco. Instead, she grabbed Ginny’s hand and reminded herself to breathe.

Draco remained stoic and unmoved, a product of his many hours in the courtroom as a barrister. “The bid is now at ten thousand galleons,” Draco said coolly. He stared Pansy down. She merely smirked.

Another woman stood, then, someone Hermione did not immediately recognize… until she spoke. Her grating voice rang clearly. “Ten thousand, five hundred galleons,” Astoria Greengrass said.

“It’s the stars of his little black book,” Ginny murmured to Hermione, who squeezed her hand so tightly that Ginny yelped.

“Twelve thousand,” Pansy returned quickly.

“Fifteen,” Astoria countered.

“It’s just a blasted bed,” Harry whispered.

Hermione watched in horror as Pansy and Astoria sweetly and respectfully countered each other’s bids, flashing bright smiles at Draco as if to say it was him and not his bed they were after. “Bloody hell,” Hermione whispered. “They’re in on it together.”

Draco hazarded a glance at Hermione. He was mortified.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “The bid stands at twenty-five thousand galleons to Ms. Greengrass. Going once. Going twice—”

“Fifty-thousand galleons.” Harry stood. Pansy’s head snapped towards him with a grimace. Hermione rubbed her temple.

“What are you doing?” she whispered to Harry. He shrugged.

“It’s for the house elves, ‘Mione.” He fluttered his eyelashes as if to blink away invisible tears. He sniffled in mock-sadness for the poor house elves and Ginny jabbed him in the ribs. “Ow!”

“Do I hear fifty-thousand, five hundred?” Draco called. Pansy sat with a huff, and Astoria merely turned on her heel and left the room. “Going once, twice, sold! To Harry Potter.”

Another gossip-ridden murmur flitted through the room.

“Excellent!” Harry strode forward and shook Draco’s hand heartily, clapping him on the back with his free hand. “We’ll put it in the nursery,” Harry said, winking at Ginny, and gleefully hooking his thumbs through his suspenders.

“Jeeze, mate, if you wanted to sleep in my bed, you could have just asked,” Draco said with a smirk.

Harry gripped Draco’s shoulder firmly and raised an eyebrow. “Let me be clear,” Harry whispered. “I didn’t do it for you.” He hazarded a glance at Hermione, who was flushed. “But I’m not about to buy your whole house to save her the embarrassment of your ex-girlfriends. I suggest shutting this down and moving forward with the dancing, eh?”

Harry moved back to his position beside his wife, who was still looking at him as if he was insane. Draco cleared his throat. “Ahem. Yes, excellent idea, Harry. If you all would adjourn yourselves to the ballroom,” Draco announced, “the dancing will begin momentarily. Thank you.”

The air in the library prickled as a man stood from the crowd. “What about the books?” Blaise Zabini buttoned his maroon coat, which swept just above the marble floor tiles. How long had it been since he had seen his former friend? His father’s trial, probably. When Blaise had sat beside him in solidarity, while Lucius was convicted of war crimes.

“The books have been spoken for by Headmistress McGonagall,” Draco said, though that was a lie. He would donate them to Hogwarts.

“That’s not for you to decide,” Blaise’s voice thundered. “They are property of the ancient order to which we both belong.”

Draco blanched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Blaise.”

The man laughed. “We are both marked. You cannot deny that.”

“You don’t have any claims here. The books you might have any interest in have been destroyed, as they should have been a long time ago,” Draco said coolly.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. What would your mother say?”

“Not much, I imagine. Considering that she no longer recognizes me as her son.” Draco cleared his throat again as the room again dissolved into murmurs. This was out of control. “I am sorry. We will reconvene in the ballroom, after a brief interlude.” Draco cast a look at Hermione, and then walked down the aisle between the rows of chairs that had been set up for the auction. But no one left the room; they merely watched Draco leave. Blaise stood towards the back of the room, smirking.

Hermione stood, fists clenched. Still, no one moved from the room, paralyzed by the tense exchange. “There is champagne being served in the garden,” Hermione peeped, as all eyes turned to her. “Ms. Skeeter will ring the chimes when the dancing is to begin.” She followed Draco’s path down the long aisle, trying to decide where he had most likely retreated. Surely he was in his old room, or… No. He was standing just outside the library door, speaking to a witch dressed in nurse’s robes, in hushed tones. When he saw Hermione, he smiled and beckoned to her. He thanked the witch, who turned on her heel and apparated away. He held out his hand to Hermione and pulled her down the hallway to the ballroom doors. He peeked inside the ballroom and pulled her inside.

“Mister Malfoy! Ms. Granger! Aren’t you just a vision together? Isn’t this just the most divine event you’ve ever seen? Never mind the drama that could unfold in this very room…” Rita Skeeter’s voice rang out clearly.

Draco raised his eyebrows at Hermione, but smiled at the pedantic woman. “Ms. Skeeter. Ms. Granger was just telling me how much she admires the work you’ve done for us. Weren’t you, my dear?”

“Yes!” Hermione said quickly. “I said that very thing. Your work is impossible to match.”

“Oh, little old me?” Rita exclaimed. “It’s been my absolute pleasure.”

“I wonder, Rita,” Draco said softly, as if asking her to conspire on a secret. “Would you be able to hold off the crowd so I can have one waltz alone with Ms. Granger? Just between us?”

Rita’s face betrayed her absolute delight at the idea of such a grand, romantic gesture. She winked at Hermione and placed her hands over her heart. “I can make that happen for you love birds. I can do anything, can’t I?” She cackled and twirled to prompt the orchestra to play something for them. Then, she slipped out of the ballroom doors to keep watch herself.

Hermione looked up at Draco like he had grown a second head. “What was that for? Not that I wouldn’t like to dance with you, because I would.”

Draco held out his hand for hers, and wrapped his arm around her waist. He pulled her close.

“I’ve been informed that my mother has asked for me,” He said. They swayed to the soft music, abandoning the idea of a lively waltz altogether.

Hermione looked up at him in surprise. “Really? Is she lucid?”

“It appears that she has been seeing a therapist. Which her doctors did not recommend to me originally because they said that she was beyond that kind of help.” He sighed and looked at their clasped hands. “But it seems that someone changed their minds.”

She blushed. It had been her secret. While Draco was overseeing the burning of the Manor’s worst memories a few days before the gala, Hermione had claimed to be spending the day with Ginny. Instead, she had gone to St. Mungo’s. She didn’t know what had possessed her, really, except that she adored him. He deserved to have a relationship with his mother. She wasn’t sure she could make it happen, but surely they could try something to help Narcissa. Luna had been her co-conspirator in this idea. Thank Merlin for Luna.

“She’s not ‘fixed’ per se,” Draco continued. “But she asked about me. Healer Lovegood thought I’d want to know.”

“That’s wonderful,” Hermione said, smiling in embarrassment. Draco stopped moving and cupped her cheek.

“You went to see her.”

She blushed. “I just wanted to see what they were doing for her.”

“I’m not mad at you, Hermione, don’t worry,” he said. “I just hope she didn’t say anything awful to you.”

“No, no,” she said. “I just sat with her and let her talk. About whatever she wanted. And then I may have stormed into the head healer’s office and threatened not to go away until he connected your mother with a therapist.”

“Yes, the nurse did mention that he had a few healing bat bites. Did you… bat-bogey hex him?”

Hermione laughed. “That must’ve been Luna. She promised to oversee Narcissa getting moved to a new room. She needs bigger windows.”

Draco shook his head and sniffed. He had no words. All he could do was shake his head in disbelief, and gratitude.

“Helloooooooooooo! Are we ready?” Rita peeked her head into the ballroom. Draco straightened and nodded to Rita. Hermione smoothed his lapels.

The orchestra welcomed the party-goers with a lively polka. Draco and Hermione vacated the dance floor; he got pulled away by a gaggle of older witches who wished to grill him about old money matters, something to do with an old myth about the Malfoys. Nevertheless, it rendered Hermione totally unguarded in the ballroom. Ginny and Harry finally found her near the balcony doors, attempting to become one with the pillar.

Hermione’s attention was diverted by Blaise Zabini, who was dancing with Pansy in the middle of the dance floor. They waltzed dramatically, drawing attention of the other dancers with the exaggerated way they whirled around in circles.

Hermione chose just that moment to glance over and catch Draco’s eye. She inclined her head towards the swirling couples on the dance floor, particularly to Blaise and Pansy. He nodded once in agreement, and turned away to close out his conversation with two twittering old ladies. The both smiled at him graciously.

“Excuse me,” Draco muttered. He made his way through a clump of old wizards and their chattering wives, nodding his head to acknowledge them, but never tearing his eyes away from her. “Pardon me,” he spoke as he stepped up beside Hermione. “Miss Granger, if you would be so kind.” He held out his hand to her and she took it. Harry made retching noises and Ginny punched him in the shoulder.

Draco set his arm around her waist once they reached the dance floor. At once the music changed to an old gavotte, a dance which would necessitate the frequent switching of partners. Draco sighed.

“Do you know this one?” Hermione whispered. “I’ve never done one of these dances.”

“Just follow me. It’s easy, but we have to switch partners every few steps.”

“Ugh,” Hermione groaned.

Draco lead her through the steps to the first partner change, and after that, she could only send him panicked glances. Her panic increased ten-fold when she was turned into the arms of Blaise Zabini. She stepped back from him as if the touch of his hands on hers had stung her. He looked down at her darkly, hatred radiating from him.

Draco was no better off, with Pansy gripping his hands tightly. He searched the dancing crowd for Hermione, only to see her retreating to the balcony as quickly as her heeled feet could carry her… with Blaise following her. Oh no. Draco wrenched his hands out of Pansy’s death grip and took off for the balcony, dodging several attempts by various important people to pull him into dull conversations about various goings-on. Hermione and Blaise had disappeared through the balcony door and out into the cold night air. Dread filled his chest. Draco quickened his pace and burst out into the darkness--only to see Blaise’s face catch Hermione’s elbow with a striking crack.

“Bloody hell!” Blaise shouted, grabbing his face and doubling over. The crowd had followed them outside in time to see Hermione whip off one of her shoes and brandish it like a wand.

“I will cut your balls off with these stilettos if you ever try to touch me again,” Hermione seethed, towering over him.

“Draco’s infatuation with you is a pathetic,” Blaise seethed, swiping for her arm. She jumped forward and pressed the heel of her shoe against his jugular, whipping her wand out of her sleeve to match it.

“So is that puny excuse for a prick that you pressed up against me. Touch me again and you’ll find yourself castrated in the most painful way imaginable.” Blaise swallowed hard and stepped back from her, holding his hands up. Draco, on the other hand, was frozen in place. He’d be damned if that wasn’t the most incredible thing he had ever seen.

Blaise laughed. “Draco, I do believe you’ve got the Mudblood imperiused. Tell me: has your mark been itching lately?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped to Draco, who stood behind Blaise with his wand drawn. Draco stalked around to stand between Blaise and Hermione.

“Why are you doing this?” Draco asked.

Blaise’s face fell into an angry snarl. “You don’t just get to walk away as if you didn’t take the oath,” he spat.

Draco ripped open his cuff so fast that his cuff links went flying. He rolled up his sleeve, whipped out his wand, and touched the tip to his dark mark. The whole room seemed to gasp in one breath of horror… but nothing happened. No dark mark appeared in the sky. No smoke, no swirling green light. Nothing.

And then he turned to Hermione, who stood behind him with her mouth agape, and leaned down to kiss her full on the mouth. With the flourish of a showman, he whirled out of the romantic embrace and swirled his wand above his head. “Expecto Patronum!” he bellowed. A swirl of blue energy pulled.from the tip of his wand, and building the image of a massive wolf. The animal hunched, as if to prepare to pounce on Blaise, as if it was hunting him.

“None of that means anything, anymore,” Draco panted, pushing up his other sleeve. “We can learn white magic. We can have families and children without worrying about how He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will use them. We don’t have to fear the scars we bear.” He flicked his wand and his wolf leaped at Blaise, before dissolving in a cloud of blue haze. Blaise yelped and cowered, covering his head with his arms. “I wouldn’t hurt you, mate.”

“It’s best if you leave, Zabini,” a voice called from the crowd. Ron stepped forward with Harry by his side, and Neville Longbottom not far behind.

“Ronald?” Hermione said, looking to Harry for an explanation. He just shrugged and rolled his eyes. Why Ron was suddenly standing up for her… she couldn’t say. He was a puzzle.

Blaise whirled on her, wand drawn.

“Petrificus totalus!”

The wizard snapped stiff and fell to the ground with a thud. Hermione, too, was frozen in place, wand outstretched and pointing to the place where Blaise had previously been standing.

“You’ve still got it, ‘Mione,” Harry said, which sent a chuckle through the uncomfortable crowd. “Ron, can you help me, mate?”

Harry and Ron took hold of Blaise’s upper body and head, while Draco took hold of his feet. Hermione removed her other shoe and followed behind them quickly. The crowd parted for them as they carried the petrified man through the ballroom. Hermione nodded at the conductor of the orchestra, who quickly struck up a sweeping tune. Rita met them at the far doors to the ballroom, looking aghast.

“Through here,” she said, motioning for them to carry the huge man into the front foyer. Kingsley Shacklebolt was standing, in all his glory, just inside the front door.

“Kingsley?” Hermione asked, surprised.

“Ms. Granger. I’ll take this baggage off your hands,” Kingsley said. He opened the front door and several aurors entered to take Blaise in hand. Once they had removed Blaise, Kingsley tipped his hat. “Mister Malfoy, I trust you’ll send me a scroll accounting for why I was called to deal with this matter, personally.”

“I summoned you,” Ron said, stepping forward.

“See me tomorrow, Mister Weasley.” Kingsley apparated, leaving Ron, Harry, Hermione, Draco, and Rita standing in the foyer. Rita chuckled.

“Well. You can’t say this wasn’t an exciting event!” Rita said. “Shall I have the misses Parkinson and Greengrass removed as well?”

“Let them stay,” Hermione said, touching Draco’s elbow. He looked down at her.

“If you’re sure,” Draco said.

Hermione nodded. Rita shrugged and went back into the ballroom to rouse the crowd for dinner.

“I hope you’ve got figgy pudding, Malfoy,” Ron muttered.

Draco was so caught off guard that he laughed. They all exchanged smiles, except for Ron, who just nodded bashfully. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and went back into the ballroom

“What possessed him?” Draco said, looking to Harry in shock.

“He’s trying,” Harry said with a shrug. “He only got here when the dancing started. He didn’t bring a date, but Lavender is here. With a woman.”

“Oh sweet Merlin,” Hermione said. “I hope he doesn’t go near the champagne.”

“He’s been sober for three weeks,” Harry said. “Ginny has made it her personal goal for the evening to ensure that he doesn’t break his streak. She’s gone to find Lavender before a confrontation occurs.”

“That’s all we need to make this evening even worse,” Hermione sighed.

“What do you mean? You’ve gotten rid of Zabini—rather spectacularly, might I add, because you two are both terrifying individually, and as a team, you could’ve made a Dementor wet itself—and now the drinking and eating and merriment can continue!” Harry put his arms around Hermione and Draco respectively. “But if you two disappeared for a little while, I doubt anyone would notice, or blame you. After your little show, I imagine they all expect you two to leave, even if you are hosting this blasted soiree. But if you decide to leave, I won’t tell a soul.”

Harry kissed Hermione’s cheek, clapped Draco on the shoulder, and went off to find his best friend.

“Are we being kicked out of our own party?” Hermione laughed.

Draco held out his arm. “Fancy a walk around the gardens, you terrifying woman?”

She took his arm, hooked her high-heeled shoes over her arm, and took her skirt in hand. Draco and Hermione disappeared out the front door to explore the gardens, in all their twinkly splendor.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavender tells her side of the story... and makes an unlikely ally.

To say that the gala had been a success would mean ignoring the fact that it had been near-sabotaged by a few washed up and desperate Death Eaters; Pansy and Astoria’s betting war for Draco’s bed, and Blaise’s subsequent tantrum, had successfully made everyone act quite awkwardly thereafter. The champagne ran out much quicker than Rita had anticipated, which meant the guests were both tipsy and disgruntled by the lack of alcohol. But after Draco and Hermione escaped the mess for the safety of the fairy-lit garden, Neville had convinced the conductor to play “something snappy”, and most guests found themselves shoeless and dancing long into the evening.

As for Draco and Hermione… well, their ‘coming out’ was as elegant as it was underwhelming. The wizarding world seemed to have gotten over it. With the exception of Blaise and the Pansy patrol, of course. Speaking of which…

When they returned from their garden walk, the party had wound down and only a few guests remained. There was one of the Patel sisters, and a pair of old men in matching velvet robes, and Lavender Brown, and someone in a giraffe costume--Lavender! Hermione sent Draco off to find Rita, and approached the woman cautiously.

Lavender was sitting on the edge of the orchestra platform, hands folded in her lap. Her head was bowed, and shoulders hunched. She looked up as Hermione approached.

Her eyes were watering.

“Don’t mind me,” Lavender sniffed, wiping her face and moving to stand. Hermione held out a hand.

“No, no--I’m sorry to bother you,” Hermione said gently. “We’ve only just come inside from the garden. We’re not kicking anyone out just yet.” She smiled.

“So,” Lavender smiled. “You and the ferret.” She nodded towards the man in question, who was currently attempting to coax a drunk giraffe to its feet. 

Hermione laughed, peering at Draco over her shoulder. “Not so ferret-like now, is he?”

“No,” Lavender agreed. “He does clean up nicely. So do you. You’ll have to give me the name of your seamstress.”

“Madame Malkin or nothing!”

“Not for me, I admit,” Lavender said. “This little number is all Greengrass.”

Hermione frowned. “What… Astoria?”

Lavender looked down at her feet sheepishly. “Yes. She has become quite an accomplished tailor. Maybe not at Madame Malkin’s level, but… this embroidery is lovely. She worked on it every night for the last two weeks, until her hands fell asleep and I had to make her stop.”

Hermione sat down on the edge of the stage beside Lavender. She tried to conceal her surprise at Lavender knowing Astoria so well, and the thoughts that followed… was Lavender better acquainted with Astoria than a seamstress would be with her client? And more to the point, had she been spending her evenings with Astoria because she was overseeing embroidery, or…

“Before you ask,” Lavender said softly. “I didn’t know she was going to try to sabotage the auction. I didn’t come here to torture Ron, either--I assumed he wouldn’t come.”

“She didn’t tell you what they were planning?” Hermione asked.

Lavender shook her head. “As far as I knew, we were going to… quietly ‘debut’.”

“Ah…” Hermione nodded. “It was as good a time as any, eh?”

“Except it wasn’t,” Lavender sniffed. "Apparently the adoration was not mutual."

“And she let you down,” Hermione finished.

“And embarrassed you and Draco--”

Hermione placed her hand on Lavender’s arm. “I am not so easily mortified, don’t worry.”

Lavender scoffed. “I saw your face when she stood up with Pansy. It looked much like mine.”

“That’s just what my face does when people bid at auctions,” Hermione said quickly. “It feigns shock and surprise.”

“You are a big fat liar, Granger, but you’re kind to say so,” Lavender laughed.

She placed her hand over Hermione’s and squeezed. “I have really messed everything up. My children don’t want to see me, because I left. Ron won’t even discuss sharing custody, because I left. My parents are dead, and my one… piece of sanity turned out--well, you saw how that worked out. But I got what I deserved. I got shat on. No wonder Ron stormed off as soon as he saw me.”

“He went to give his statement to Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Hermione said. “About Blaise.”

“Oh Merlin. I suppose he did his bit.”

“Yes he did. I’m as surprised as you. That he did anything about Blaise’s outburst, that he went along with the police. That he came to the gala at all.” 

They both chuckled sadly. It was strange sitting there, two women who had loved Ron Weasley, and by separate methods and manners, lost him. Although, neither woman pined for him. Both knew his volatile outbursts, his hysterical passion for honor and integrity, his skewed idea of what was owed to him. And yet neither woman knew what drove him, now; Ron without a woman or a bottle was a man without distraction. His focus on justice was confusing. What he did at home or on the weekends was a mystery to them both. He was his own man.

“He came around to mine right after I started seeing Draco, all hysterical,” Hermione murmured. 

“Really? That must’ve been right after…” Lavender trailed off, and Hermione nodded.

“I think he was just trying to grasp at something familiar, trying to make sense of you leaving.”

“Only you weren’t waiting around to catch him.”

“Not in the least. I was healing. I had just gotten out of the hospital. I was trying to get past feeling like I only got up in the mornings so that I could go to bed having done something other than wonder what the hell happened to that ‘better life’ we were supposed to have after the war.” Hermione sighed.

“Oh, that’s all bollocks anyway,” Lavender scoffed. “We lived. We’re lucky.”

Hermione glanced at the other woman and smiled. “I can see why he likes you.”

“Liked,” Lavender corrected her. “I’m past tense.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione said, hooking her arm around Lavender’s elbow. “Now that you’ve cut the Greengrass, you’re someone’s future.”

“I’m my own future, Granger. Anyone else added to this equation would be purely incidental.” Lavender genuinely looked optimistic, despite the tear trails on her cheeks. “Except… I hope my children will forgive me, eventually. I don’t even know where they’re living.”

“The Burrow,” Hermione said.

“Good. Then they’re with people who love them. Astoria hated children, you know.”

“Really?”

“Loathed them. Said that if she had ever been cursed with a son, she would’ve named him Scorpius, just to spite him.”

“Merlin,” Hermione breathed. 

“I suppose it’s partially why I lied about cheating on him. Didn’t think I wanted children either.”

“You didn’t… you know… did you?” Hermione’s question failed her.

“Sleep with half of London’s male population?” 

Hermione blushed. “I hadn’t meant to be so crass.”

“I didn’t sleep with anyone other than Ron from the time we were married on. Not even Astoria. Not anyone.”

Hermione sat back and looked at her new friend with surprise.

“But why did you let him think that you had?”

“Have you ever tried to tell someone that you just… never loved them in the way they needed? Without saying those words, without telling them that you didn’t have the strength to be a wife or a mum… that you needed to care for your heart for awhile.” Lavender’s voice broke. “It’s not a matter of me ‘liking women best’ or suddenly realizing that I’m a lesbian or whatever people will probably say about me when they find out about Astoria--”

“I think you’re being harder on yourself than anyone else,” Hermione said gently. "You're allowed to love whomever you're drawn to."

“Hermione, that's wonderefully romantic, but it isn't how the rest of our world thinks.” Lavender grabbed her hands. “Ron needs to be needed. You probably know that better than anyone.”

“I do.”

“But I liked it better when he still wanted to see the world more than he wanted me to love him. Do you see?”

Hermione sighed. Of course she didn’t. The version of Ron she had loved was most adventurous when hovering over a chess board. Lavender had brought out a different side of Ron that she had just never seen. Ron had needed Hermione, or so he thought--at least needed her to guide him. To always be there to catch him, as Lavender had said. But he had counted on Lavender to love him until the end of their days, never mind what she wanted. 

“I suppose we all want different things,” Hermione said finally.

Lavender nodded. “I should not have left without telling him the truth.”

“It’s not too late.”

Hermione turned at the sound of Draco’s voice. He was standing by the door to the ballroom with one foot propping the door open. He pushed it open. Ron stood on the other side, and for perhaps the first time in his entire life, he did not look in the least bit sheepish. Nor was he angry, or upset. He merely looked solemn.

Lavender stood at the sight of her estranged husband. She glanced down at Hermione.

“Let’s do lunch, Hermione. Sometime this week.”

Hermione nodded, squeezing Lavender’s hands and releasing her. Lavender smoothed the front of her gown, which was especially fine. It was a deep eggplant color with silver sparrows embroidered down the sleeves and along the bottom of the skirt. She stepped towards the door, and when she reached it, Ron moved out of her way. They walked in stride, not touching, but footsteps in sync. Hermione wondered how their conversation would go, with each owning their choices and their needs. At least, she hoped they would. Thankfully, Ron’s needs were no longer her concern.

Draco smiled at his girl as she sat on the edge of the stage, watching another chapter in her life close, whether she knew it or not. She looked peaceful, tired, and beautiful.

“My darling, have I told you how beautiful you are in that gown?” Draco said.

Hermione blushed and looked at her toes, which peeked out from under the edge of her skirts. “I believe you called me ‘terrifying’ earlier.”

“That is not the same thing,” he laughed. “I wish I had bought you a ruby pendant to wear tonight. Something that would fall perfectly with the neckline.”

“Alas you did not,” she said, standing. She walked to him and pecked him on the cheek. “And where would a necklace like that fall, on my neckline?”

Draco smirked down at her and raised a finger, pressing it gently against her sternum. “Just there.”

“That’s not anywhere near my neck.”

“I know.” He hooked an arm around her back and she smiled.

“Whew,” she said. “What an evening.”

“Indeed. I could have wished for a different turn of events, I won’t lie.”

Hermione sighed. “Will you promise me never to throw me another party? Not unless I can wear my pajamas and hit a paper mache unicorn with a cricket bat.”

“Not another gala, I’ll tell you that,” he chuckled. “But there’s just one more kind of party I’d like to throw you.”

“Which kind is that?” She looped her arms around his waist. He shook his head and grinned.

“That should be obvious, my dear.”

She thought hard. “I have no idea. Please tell me?”

“In good time,” he smiled. His eyes were sparkling. 

“You’re going to keep it a secret?”

Draco cupped her cheek. “I can think of many reasons to celebrate you, but only one more that would require fancy dress. But it probably won’t be tomorrow, so you have time to recover.”

“What kind of party? Can you give me a hint?”

“The kind that also celebrates me.”

“I don’t understand. Our birthdays aren’t close to each other.”

He kissed her temple. “I’ll let you think about it for a little while.”

“Ugh! I hate when you do that. Can’t you just tell me?” She asked.

“I like seeing you squirm, Granger,” he laughed.

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. “Some things never change.”

“Come along, goddess divine. I’d like to strip that dress from your skin and celebrate you in our bed.”

“Sometimes, Malfoy, you’re a cheeseball,” Hermione said, though her mouth betrayed a giggle.

“You love it.”

“I love  _ you. _ ”

“We can celebrate that too.” He kissed her so gently that she almost didn’t feel it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen... I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. I really love this story. I got so burnt out on writing that I doubted my ability to add onto it. But You've all said such wonderful things to me about it, I honestly didn't expect to still receive such amazing comments months after I last updated. Thank you for your belief in my slice of this vast universe.
> 
> Also #sorrynotsorry for the Scorpius joke. I've never *loved* the epilogue. You understand, you wild and wonderful beauties.
> 
> PS. What sort of party do you think Draco wants to throw for Hermione, eh??


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas... and it completely slipped Draco's mind.

Draco awoke on the morning after the gala to find it snowing… in his bedroom. The flakes weren’t cold, and they weren’t blasting through a carelessly open window, they were just floating down out of nothing, out of the long beams of light shining through the bed curtains. He blinked blearily. 

Christmas.

Oh, Merlin. It was Christmas. And he had plum forgotten. Not just forgotten to get Hermione a gift, but completely forgot that Christmas was coming, entirely. Forgot to get a tree, and lights, and a goose to roast. Forgot his own name, practically, in all of the preparations for the gala. He had spent so much time worrying about the Manor and his case… Hermione, on the other hand, had quite obviously remembered. 

He groaned. He was the absolute worst. Could he come up with a gift before she came in to wake him up with coffee? Likely not. He’d have to take her out to a nice dinner. Perhaps that place that they had re-met, and give her a better memory, and a better meal. Or Le Gavroche, and really sweep her off her feet.

Draco finally decided to get out of bed, with the idea that his gift would have to come later. As soon as he opened the bed curtains… he sighed. He really was a prat. From the open closet door, Hermione had hung his black velvet coat with a red tie and green jumper, and black slacks. His favorite black boots sat beneath the suit, with a pair of red and green argyle socks draped over the toes. On his bedside table, she had arranged a pair of cufflinks that he had never seen before, and a green pocket square, and his pocket watch. If she really expected him to wear all of this, he would look like a bloody Christmas elf. And he would do it, for her, without complaint. She could probably truss him up in purple garters and a sequin cumberbund. But her preparations meant she had something planned. And so his guilt magnified. But he was fairly certain she didn’t mean for him to change right off, before he’d had one sip of coffee, so he slipped on his house shoes, tugged on his well-worn robe, and shuffled to the bedroom door.

He sighed, twisted the knob, and opened it.

To his utter devastation and despair, the living room was a veritable Christmas wonderland. Beside the fireplace, Hermione had arranged a slim cypress tree. It was drenched in frozen droplets, which shone like crystals from the fairy lights. There were hundreds of glass baubles hanging from the branches, and a silver ribbon swagged and spiraling downward and around the tree. From the fireplace mantle, she had hung two large stockings; one was green velvet, and the other red, and each was monogrammed with their first initial. They also happened to be full and bursting with tiny, wrapped gifts. He swallowed hard as he gazed upon the crackling fire in the fireplace, and the snowmen pillows on the couch, and the greenery hanging from corner-to-corner of the ceiling. 

His dismay grew as Hermione emerged from the kitchen looking like a perfect cookie. She was wearing a Scandinavian jumper, which was white with little flecks of green and red dotted amongst the cables. Her hair was piled in well-manicured curls--and her nails were manicured in Christmas colors, too. She wore a tartan skirt and the fluffiest slippers he had ever seen. She was even wearing lipstick, and a lovely smile, and she was holding two steaming mugs of liquid.

“Oh, hello, sleepyhead!” She giggled. “Before you speak, I am not responsible for any of this horrid mess. Ginny and Harry thought it would be hilarious to make our flat look like Santa’s workshop, so I walked out to see Winky cackling as she danced about to carols and stuffed our stockings full of Merlin-knows-what.” She kissed his cheek and handed him a mug of coffee.

“I’m ashamed to say that it slipped my mind entirely,” he yawned. “I’m sorry, love. I hope you haven’t gotten me anything.”

She shook her head and laughed. “I had forgotten, too. But I can come up with something, if you like.”

“Oh please, don’t,” he chuckled. “I’m scared to look at what Potter gave us.”

“Mostly sweets, I’ll bet.”

“Speaking of which…” Draco held up his mug and clinked it against Hermione’s. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks,” she smiled. “I thought we might go visit your mum.”

“Is that why you laid out my suit?”

“ _ I  _ laid out your grey slacks and green jumper. Winky is responsible for the rest.”

“Mum will like it,” he sighed. “She always did love Christmas, and she’ll be tickled to see me looking so festive. Supposing that she’s lucid today. I hope she is.” He looked down into his coffee and swirled the brown liquid.

Hermione touched his arm. “We’ll see, won’t we? We can always leave her be if it isn’t a good time for her.”

Draco nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You may find this amusing…” Hermione set down her mug on the coffee table and padded into the kitchen. “But this morning’s Prophet is quite back to its usual self. With a twist!” She called. She emerged with the paper in hand and unfurled it to reveal the front page.

The headline read:

 

**TEENY MEANIE ZABINI: Brazen Blaise’s Blazing Rage Fizzles at Gala, Fossilized and Petrified by Granger**

 

Below the headline was a photograph of Hermione petrifying Blaise and his body seizing. Behind her, Draco looked proud and angry. She looked marvelous.

“I look quite fit!” she laughed. Draco nodded with a wink to her. He scanned the rest of the page where various headlines extolled the gala as a great success, and only briefly mentioned that Rita had ended the night passed out in a giraffe costume. There was a rather delicious photograph of Draco and Hermione descending the Manor’s front steps, his arm around her waist, her shoes dangling at her side, and her offering him a peck. It was a tad more personal than he would’ve liked to have eternally memorialized in the daily prophet, but the headline was succinct and perfect:

 

**MALFOY AND GRANGER: NONE OF OUR BUSINESS**

 

“I suppose that’s that,” he said happily.

“The Prophet has made it clear: we’re not a news story,” Hermione agreed.

“I don’t know, I think we’re magnificent!” Draco folded the Prophet so only their photograph showed. 

“Your bum looks marvelous in that suit,” she said. “I think we ought to have it framed and mounted over the mantel.”

“What, my bum?”

“No, you ninny,” she cackled, shoving his elbow. “That photograph! We look divine together.”

“That we do.” He kissed her and drank his coffee, and took in the overwhelming sight of Winky’s decorations. In the meantime, Hermione attacked the stockings with a voracity that would have been alarming on any other day, except for this one. Mostly, the gifts were indeed sweets and chocolate frogs; he got four Harry Potter chocolate frogs, much to his chagrin (and he was sure Harry had done it on purpose), and Hermione managed to find a card of Marie Catherine LaVeau, which she stared at in absolute delight. The Voodoo Queen chocolate frog card took up her new place on the mantel, beside a giant golden candle.

There were also biscuits and Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Candy Beans (which Draco immediately tossed in the bin), and red licorice vines, and several packs of large, white underpants (not edible), and marshmallow beards, and mince pies in paper… so many delicious confections, each individually wrapped in metallic paper, with love and care.

It wasn’t like Draco had never celebrated Christmas, but he had never seen anyone as gleeful about it as Hermione, once the present unwrapping began. He imagined what she must have been like as a child, and it delighted him. She probably wouldn’t eat all of those sweets (and he would try as hard as he could not to). But it was good fun, anyway.

After Draco had drank enough coffee to jumpstart a stone heart, he dressed up in the outfit Winky had chosen for him (and the cufflinks that turned out to be from his partners at the firm), picked out a few pieces of candy for his mum, and departed for St. Mungo’s with Hermione on his arm.

Healer Lovegood met them at the check-in desk. “Well, hello! If it isn’t the best-looking couple ever to grace the cover of the Prophet.” She was beaming.

Draco looked around. “What, Potter and Ginny are here, too?” he joked.

“We missed you last night, Luna,” Hermione said, hugging her friend.

“She had rather more important things to do,” Draco said. “Thank you for sending a messenger.”

“She’s keen to see you. Even got her to bathe and change into a Christmas jumper. She’s not entirely lucid, mind you, but we’ve given her a photograph of you and she tells every nurse who enters the room who you are.” Luna held her hand out to Draco and he grasped it. “She’s seen this morning’s paper, too. If you’d like, you can sit in on the end of her session with Healer Grant in the viewing room.”

Draco suddenly felt overwhelmed, and terrified. Last time he had visited, she had mistaken him for his father.

Luna lead them down a long corridor to the psychiatric wing of the hospital. It was dimly lit, and cold--except that someone had made sure there were floating ornaments and candles overhead, which helped drastically improve the feel of the hospital, overall. Hermione wondered if there was a way to brighten it up permanently…

Narcissa Malfoy sat upright in a large leather armchair, with a high back and wings. She clasped a small framed photograph. Through the two-way mirror, they could watch her and go unnoticed. Draco breathed out slowly. His mum was smiling as the Healer spoke to her.

“I bet he was a troublemaker as a toddler,” the Healer said, smiling.

“Oh,” Narcissa shook her head and laughed. “My boy. My boy. Never minding.” She looked down at the photo. “So handsome. Not like him, not like… Him. Kinder. Different.”

“Not like his father?” The healer asked.

Narcissa looked up with tears in her eyes. “Never like him,” she shook her head. “Kind.”

Draco didn’t realize that his eyes were tearing up until Hermione reached up and gently wiped a tear off his cheek. “Not like him…” Draco whispered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gala took place on Christmas Eve, and like Draco, I entirely forgot. :) Oopsie.
> 
> Anybody wanna... Red Vine?
> 
> I'm debating having Hermione decide to return to healing. What say you?


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months after the gala, Hermione tails a dead man. Another kink gets thrown into Draco's case.

She quieted her breathing in the crook of her elbow. He had passed less than a foot from where she hid behind the bins, but there was no mistaking it: this was the man she was searching for. This man was the key to Draco’s case. Everything about him was right on the description; from the slight limp, to the massive shoulders, and the hunting knife sheathed at his hip. He radiated explosive energy, like he was anticipating being attacked at any moment. He didn’t seem to know that Hermione was watching him from the shadows. 

Nobody knew she was there. Draco thought she was having a drink with Lavender Brown; they had become friends in the three months since the gala... well, maybe not friends, but they were better acquainted than she ever would have anticipated. Lav was smart, too. Just confused about where her life should be going, now that her girlfriend had turned out to be a traitor. If Draco had known that she was going to tail a killer, he would have tried to stop her. But how could she sit back and wait for the police to find this man? 

They didn’t know him like she knew him. They didn’t know the scars he had made on her body. They thought he had died in prison half-a-decade ago, but hearing his name roll of Draco’s lips had made her numb with fear. If Draco knew his name, she was already in danger; he didn’t let any detail of his brother’s life go unnoted, so he likely knew Draco’s name, and hers by association. She hadn’t exactly been secretive about going places with him in Muggle London, where surely a lackey could have seen her. When they had been together, he had frequently had her tailed by his minions.

And how many times had she heard him rave about his brother’s petty crimes? He had bragged about having a brother willing to take a fall for him… assuring her that if he didn’t eventually kill her, his brother would. When she had originally learned of his death in a prison brawl, his brother had also been named as deceased. It wasn’t until Draco brought his work home that she even learned the name of the accused murderer he was trying to put away. In his exhaustion, Draco had left a file folder peeking out of his briefcase with the name GRIMES in typed black letters. More prodding had revealed the truth: the Grimes in question was Boyd, and he had just named his brother, Joseph, on the stand, as a possible accomplice. Or as the true murderer, Draco suspected. 

The trouble was, Joseph Grimes was supposed to have died after Hermione made him turn himself in. Joseph Grimes had been dead in her heart for years. But he was very much alive in that alley, just feet away from her.

She didn’t want Draco to know that this was the man who had nearly killed her, not yet., not until she had seen him with her own eyes.

Her heart raced as she watched Joseph amble towards a doorway lit with a single, flickering lamp. It seemed like he was bleeding a bit on his right leg; a dark stain was forming just below his knee, and he was clutching at his hip. It didn’t make him any less imposing. He pounded three times on the door with his hamfist.

A woman opened the door for the impossible man and stepped aside so he could enter. Hermione couldn’t see her clearly, just the swirl of deep burgundy skirts and a flash of red hair. She gasped when the woman stepped out of Joseph’s shadow. 

Ginny.

Her friend glanced outside and shut the door quickly. The latch slid into place with a heavy, scratching clank. Hermione rushed towards the doorway, fearful for Ginny and so shocked to see her friend in contact with her ex-boyfriend that the need for answers trumped the need for secrecy. The need to be invisible.

Hermione placed her palms on the door and breathed out heavily. Should she knock and find out why her best friend had just allowed that man into this strange building? Before she could make a choice, the door swung open.

1 DAY EARLIER

He stood before the jury, staring in the face of a man who had slaughtered seven people in seven, separate, but equally gruesome murders. The convict’s eyes were nearly swollen shut, and purple as two overripe grapes; he had been attacked during his one hour of allotted outside time--the one time of day that he wasn’t in his tiny, single cell. After a botched escape attempt (which had resulted in a broken arm), the man, Boyd Grimes was his name, had been moved to a prison nearly as horrid as Azkaban. The trouble was, all of the evidence against the man was circumstantial. He was a handyman, who had worked on five of the victim’s houses. He lived near the other two. Grimes was a thin but densely muscled man of forty-five. What seemed to Draco to be an open and shut case had proved difficult because Grimes flat-out refused to speak--either to police officers, or to his own counsel, or to the court. The man had never once spoke since his arrest. The defense had repeatedly brought up the man’s reluctance to speak, so the fact was well-known. They were trying to paint him as ‘timid’. 

For Draco’s part, he was tempted to _Confund_ the man and force the truth out of him. Instead, he looked the man dead in the eye and willed him to speak.

“Mister Malfoy, we haven’t got all day,” the judge sighed, scratching his head beneath his large, white wig.

“Yes, but you see, Mister Grimes is dangerously closely to being held in contempt of court,” Draco said. 

“I will decide when a man is in contempt of court,” Judge Murray said, scowling.

Draco sighed. “Your Honor, the defense has repeatedly asserted that Mister Grimes will testify in his own defense and yet he refuses to speak when questioned.” 

“Mister Grimes, you do understand that you will be given just one opportunity to speak on your own behalf,” Judge Murray said. 

Grimes looked up at the judge, then back at Draco. He leaned forward, draping his hands over the rail. He cleared his throat. “Joseph. Grimes.” 

He sat back against his chair and crossed his arms. A low murmur spread through the crowd of people. Draco crossed his arms to mimic Grimes. “Who is Joseph Grimes?” he said.

The defense lawyer, Counselor Pill, stood, buttoned his suit coat and sighed. “Your Honor, Joseph Grimes is the defendant’s brother. His whereabouts are currently unknown. He was thought to be dead but the records are... unclear.”

“Counselors, please approach the bench,” the judge said, beckoning both Draco and the other barrister forward. Draco glanced at his co-counsel; his partner had his head in his hand.

“I am sorry,” Councilor Pill said quietly, once Draco and Judge Murray were the only ones within hearing. “Mister Grimes has been difficult ever since his attack.”

“Need I remind you that this case was postponed for three months so your client could recover enough to testify,” the judge sighed.

“I’m as surprised as you,” Pill stuttered. 

“I’ll give you three days to investigate your client’s change of heart, Mister Pill. After that, I’ll have no choice but to declare a mistrial and give Mister Malfoy a bottle of scotch for his troubles.” Judge Murray sat back and knocked his gavel on the bench three times. “This court will recess until Thursday. Bailiff, please return Mister Grimes to his cell.”

Draco glanced at Pill, who was white as a sheet. He looked positively gobsmacked. 

Draco returned to the Prosecutor’s table and gathered his papers into his briefcase with very little care for their order. This case was going to determine his future as a barrister and yet, he couldn’t seem to catch a break. If only he could go home and tell Hermione everything, get her brilliant mind whirring. 

“I need everything that exists on Joseph Grimes,” Draco whispered to his co-counselor. 

“Joseph Grimes died five years ago in prison, supposedly,” his partner replied. “We didn’t look into him because he no longer exists.”

“What was he locked up for?”

“He confessed to beating his girlfriend within an inch of her life. Turned himself in. He was killed by another inmate.”

Draco’s stomach rolled. It sounded so like Hermione’s story. But how could a dead man be involved? Could it be possible that Joseph Grimes was still alive?


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco get answers--but they only lead to dark mysteries.

“Go home, honey,” Ginny whispered through the crack between the door and the frame.

“Ginny, what in the hell is going on?” Hermione asked.

“I owe you an explanation, but not right now. Go home.” Ginny closed the door and a heavy latch slid into place. Hermione sighed, staring at the locked door. She slid her wand out of her sleeve and touched the lock.

“Alohomora,” she whispered. Nothing happened. Hermione glanced over her shoulder and scanned the alley. She raised her wand to the top of the door frame. “Specialis Revelio.”

If she hadn’t worked in muggle affairs for years, she wouldn’t have realized that the wood grain on the door was subtly shifting--but there was no mistaking the Ministry ‘M’ that appeared in the knotty wood. Damn. Deep magic was at play, here, and the Ministry was somehow behind it. She couldn’t possibly get in at the front door, but there had to be another way in. At least, if the Ministry was involved, Ginny was safe. But that didn’t mean Hermione was.

Hermione pressed her ear against the door. She could just make out the subtle creak of splinters shifting in place--like the door was breathing, always changing… prepared to keep people out. To keep her out, specifically.

She stepped back and glanced upwards at the facade of the building; she couldn’t help but feel like her memory of it was fading, even as she looked at it. She couldn’t describe the building itself, couldn’t compare it to any other in London. There was nothing about it that would ever point her way to it again. Hermione felt the panic in her welling--she needed answers, to know that she was safe, even with this man alive, the man who had tried to kill her. She had thought him dead. How could she go home to Draco and sleep peacefully? How could she move forward without knowing? Her breath drew in shallow gasps, so she did the only thing she could think of.

She raised her wand above her head and pointed it at the roof of the building.

“Incendio!” she cried.

The eaves caught alight immediately and the fingers of the flames tickled along the roof tiles like a charred piano scale. Hermione stepped back from the door and waited. The magic concealed any shouts of concern or screams for help. Of a sudden, the flames were sucked into the gutters, and dampened by a mist that seemed to fall just over the charred roof. Then, it was out. The roof repaired itself, and it was once again unremarkable.

Hermione’s eyes burned with angry tears. She disapparated so quickly that she catapulted herself into Draco’s arms the moment she arrived home. His hands grasped her tightly. He caught her against his chest.

“What is it?” he said.

“He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive,” Hermione sobbed into his chest. “He’s alive. Ginny knows why. Jo--Joseph Grimes. He’s alive.”

Draco cupped the back of her head. “I can’t talk about the case, love, you know that--”

“I saw him!” she said, pushing back from him. “I saw him. Ginny let him into a building that the Ministry owns. I don’t know how to get back there, but Ginny will know why.”

He could tell that she meant every word. She looked frantic, panicked in a way that he had never seen before. Draco felt a darkness surge in him; an anger he had kept harnessed for over ten years. At the mere thought of something coming for Hermione… he was prepared to unleash a side of himself that had been dormant for years. What he didn’t quite understand was how Hermione knew the man. Unless…

Draco cupped her cheeks. Her tearful eyes stared up at him.

“Is he the one?” Draco whispered.

Hermione closed her eyes and a sob overtook her once more. She burrowed into the safety of his chest.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked her.

“I need you to come with me to see Harry,” she said. “He must know what Ginny is doing.”

Draco nodded. He held her tightly against his chest and thought of Harry. In the blink of an eye they apparated to the living room of The Nest, Harry and Ginny’s secluded cottage. Harry was waiting there on the couch with Ginny beside him--both of them looked ashamed, as if they had expected their friends’ arrival.

Harry offered a half smile and gestured to the open chairs. Draco lead Hermione to an armchair. She sat, and Draco knelt beside her.

Ginny couldn’t look at her friend; she was clearly distraught to have been found out. Harry folded his hands and sat forward.

“You must understand something, Hermione,” Harry began. “We’re not able to tell you what you think you need to know. We’ve taken unbreakable oaths, both of us. But if we’re able…” Harry looked at his wife, who nodded solemnly. “We can tell you a bit.”

“How is he alive?” Hermione asked simply.

Ginny sighed. “He’s been Obliviated.”

“So he wouldn’t know Hermione from Eve,” Draco said.

“Right. He’s essentially a Blank.” Harry clarified. “It’s worse than Azkaban.”

“Respectfully, mate, I’ll have to disagree with you,” Draco said, darkly.

“How does Ginny factor into all this?” Hermione asked.

Ginny shook her head.

“You can’t say?” Hermione said, growing angry. “You can’t tell your best friend why the man who tortured her is still alive--and under your protection?” She stood, shaking. “How could you take an unbreakable vow that you knew would hurt me?”

“It’s our friendship that makes my vow Unbreakable,” Ginny said. She looked at Hermione with tears in her eyes. “The more you trusted me, the stronger the magic grew that surrounded my vow. I don’t even know how you found me tonight.”

Hermione looked down at Draco and blushed. She withdrew her hand from his. “I found a piece of paper with his name on it, and possible location.”

“In my briefcase?” Draco asked quietly. Hermione just nodded. Ginny and Harry exclaimed a worried glance.

“Is he a person of interest in your Muggle case?” Harry asked.

“I’m afraid it’s worse than that,” Draco said. “He’s just been implicated as the potential killer. By his own brother.”

“This man is known to both Muggles and Wizards--it’s worse than we ever thought,” Ginny said.

“But you can’t tell me why,” Hermione gathered. Harry and Ginny both shook their heads. “Can I know anything more than this? Please… give me anything.”

Harry stood and walked to the bookshelf beside the fireplace. His fingers skimmed for a specific spine--that’s the one. He plucked it from the shelf and studied the cover “I am not supposed to show this to you, Hermione,” he said. “But there is so much that you must know, that you deserve to know. About why Ron left… why this man came into your life. Why he hurt you.”

“Do you mean that she was… supposed to be hurt by him?” Draco asked, shaking with anger. “That someone predestined it to happen?”

“No, that’s not it at all!” Ginny burst. “Ron… has a purpose that is secret and protected by the Ministry, something our father set into motion before he was even born. And he failed at it. Spectacularly. And it seems that the responsibility fell to me, as the youngest Weasley. It is now my responsibility to… cage a beast unlike anything this world has ever known.”

“And,” Harry sighed, “it also falls upon our unborn child. The last in the Weasley bloodline.”

“We’re the last ones to conceive, of all my siblings,” Ginny said.

“And it hasn’t been easy for you,” Hermione added gently.

“No,” Ginny agreed. “There is deep magic at play.”

“Someone is trying to end the Weasley bloodline,” Draco realized.

“The only way to protect Ginny and our baby was to take this duty head-on. We have no choice if we want our child to survive.” Harry scratched his cheek.

Draco looked up at Hermione. The outcome of his case was no longer just deciding his fate as a barrister, but Hermione’s well-being, and the well-being of Harry and Ginny’s unborn child. Whatever that meant; clearly, there was much that they couldn’t divulge. Someone was forcing them to keep it all a secret. Someone was punishing them.

“Can you get me access to him?” Draco asked.

Harry and Ginny exchanged a dark look.

“I can arrange for his transportation to be… interrupted… but no more,” Harry said.

“Transportation to where?” Draco asked.

Harry shook his head.

“Fine. When?”

“When they say. It’s arranged through private emissary. I’m never warned when a drop will be made.”

“But it’s made through the Ministry, yes?” Draco asked.

Harry neither nodded or spoke. He glanced at Ginny.

“You may not realize this, but your gala ignited a… conflict,” Ginny whispered.

“Surely this isn’t about blood purity!” Draco exclaimed.

“Worse,” Harry said. “Worse.”

He tossed Draco the book with one hand, and with the other, he cast a silent banishment spell. Draco and Hermione were disapparated at once, pushed back to Draco’s apartment with a punishing force. When he finally grasped solid ground again, Draco saw that Hermione lay beside the fireplace, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all. I apologize for the hiatus. Life has been rough. I'll try to keep updating you frequently. <3


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco only begin to scratch the surface of a new mystery.

The book Harry and Ginny had given them was a mere sliver of the truth; Joseph Grimes’ diary made Dolores Umbridge look reasonable. His ravings were incoherent, though rambling. He seemed to believe, above all else, that muggle-born women should be wiped out--that by killing them, the world would be peopled only by those born of pure bloodlines. The Weasleys had indeed come from a long line of wizards, so it didn’t make sense to Draco that they had fallen into such a mess. It was difficult to glean answers from a one-sided diary.

From what he could tell, Draco read that Grimes had been a follower of Voldemort back when he was merely a boy at Hogwarts. Less certain was how Grimes transformed into a murderous adult, especially considering that he had not been a known member of Voldemort’s inner circle during the Great War.

Draco had so intimately known the coterie of evil that surrounded the Dark Lord during his own time at Hogwarts, he would certainly have remembered Grimes. He would’ve shared meals with the man, seen him report his findings to the Dark Lord, likely been coached by him. He would have been present during Draco’s darkest memories.

Instead, Grimes was Hermione’s worst fear, realized. Draco did not want her to read about herself in those garbled pages. The way Grimes spoke of her, obsessing over “seeing her muddy blood pulsing beneath the skin on her hands”, and more… Draco swallowed hard. True, Draco loved her, but he wanted to protect her from this knowledge for more than just that reason. Nobody on earth should have to read about themselves in such a way. Grimes had plotted every possible way he could kill her. He had written it down. She was lucky to have escaped with her scars from the hot iron.

Grimes had learned of her through some psychic connection to Arthur Weasley, according to his diary. Some bond, some sort of unbreakable link. His obsession grew as Hermione and Ron found each other. It became unbearable the moment that Hermione and Ron had split up.

Yet, Grimes had waited several years after Hermione and Ron parted ways before weaseling his way into Hermione’s life. He bragged of stalking other women, too, while he waited for the right time to seek out Hermione’s favor. He never explicitly said that he killed any of them, but his obsession with Muggle-born witches living alone in London was positively gruesome. He seemed liable to unseat a certain Ripper from his pedestal.

With this knowledge of Joseph Grimes’ past, and little inkling of the true connection to Ginny, Draco felt they were at a crossroads:

Joseph Grimes was blank. His memories could not be revived, through any means. Hermione was safe from ever encountering him in his former state.

But he was still alive, and the knowledge that he had not died in a brawl after all was enough to give her night terrors for the past two days. Draco had one more day to understand how Joseph Grimes played into his brother’s case before he had to present his findings to the jury.

It was for that reason that Draco found himself sitting across the room from Healer Luna Lovegood, gently cradling his mother’s hand, as she rambled through her weekly therapy session. Draco had met with Luna privately, for Hermione’s sake. Nevermind what he could glean for his trial; at that point, it only mattered that he give Hermione peace of mind. The only former Death Eater he was still in contact with was his mother. If anyone knew his whereabouts during the Great War, Narcissa would probably have heard of him. Supposing he was indeed devoted to Voldemort at that point.

Narcissa had increasingly become comfortable speaking about that time in her life, most likely because she spoke about it as if she had dreamed it--as if it had happened to someone else. She was emotionally disconnected, though her memories were somewhat detailed. She remembered things like patterns on clothing, and the looks on people’s faces. Less so concrete events.

“Narcissa, do you remember a man named Joseph Grimes?” Healer Lovegood asked gently. Narcissa had just finished speaking about a dinner in which Bellatrix Lestrange had eaten a live beetle. ‘Bella’, she called her.

“Oh, he wasn’t a person,” Narcissa said, dreamily.

“You don’t remember him? Or you remember him, but he wasn’t around during that time?” Draco suggested. Narcissa looked at him and frowned. She bit her lip.

“Not pure. Not pure, not really. He wasn’t.” Narcissa shook her head insistently.

“Not purely what?” Healer Lovegood asked.

“Tom said no. JG couldn’t stay because he wasn’t pure.” Narcissa seemed intent that Grimes wasn’t somehow ‘pure’... but surely, she didn’t mean…

“Mother,” Draco said, grasping her hands between his. “Was Joseph Grimes Muggle-born?”

Narcissa’s eyes snapped up to his fiercely. She pointed her finger at him and touched his nose, smiling. “He wasn’t like you, baby.”

Draco glanced at Luna, who was watching Narcissa stoically. “So he was, what… sent away?”

“Gone away, far away. Can’t stay! Don’t have to go home, but can’t stay here!” Narcissa cackled. She slipped away into catatonic dreaminess, eyes wide open and glazed over. She was too tired to be lucid, but she had been making wonderful progress lately. Draco was proud of her despite this lapse.

But one thing really stuck out to him: His mother knew that Joseph Grimes was Muggle-born. He had been sent away for it, perhaps by Voldemort, or someone else. Either way, it made sense why Draco had no knowledge of him. At some point in Voldemort’s quest, he had come to the realization that Joseph Grimes (who claimed, at least in his own diary, to be an intimate friend of Tom Riddle) was born of Muggles, and the man was banished from the Dark Lord’s inner circle.

That could break any madman.

Draco ran a finger through his hair. “Perhaps he really isn’t a threat any longer,” he breathed, only for Luna’s benefit.

Luna leaned forward in her chair, pointed her quill at Draco, and leveled with him. “If Hermione feels like she is in danger, he’s a threat. Even as a Blank. She’s come too far now.”

“I agree,” he sighed. “I wish I had never left my briefcase on the table. I hadn’t expected her to regard it at all, let alone see a name she recognized.”

“This is Hermione we’re talking about,” Luna laughed gently. “She is a bit of a snoop.”

“It doesn’t bother me that she looked, truly. I have nothing to hide from her. But how was I to know that the most important trial of my life would involve the man who nearly killed her? I’m a Muggle barrister, for Salazar’s sake!” Draco winced. He had worked so long to escape Wizard conflict, only to wind up with this case. His worlds were once again indelibly intertwined.

“What do I do?” Draco asked.

“Go to the source,” Luna said, resolutely.

“Who is that? Grimes is Blank and Voldemort is dead.” Draco stood in frustration.

Luna nodded. “Grimes appeared to have some sort of connection to the Weasleys, you said. Go to Arthur Weasley and see what he knows.”

“Don’t you think I ought to speak to Boyd Grimes, if I can?”

“You will find out answers about Grimes’ true nature if you figure out why it still has a hold on Ginny,” Luna reasoned.

“You’re right. Thank you.”

He didn’t know whether to shake her hand, or offer her a hug… or what to do to say thank you for everything she had done for his mother and for Hermione… but he didn’t have to decide. Luna gripped his arm in reassurance, before offering her arm to Narcissa. Draco kissed his mother on the cheek and bid Luna a silent farewell.

When he reached St. Mungo’s floo network, he grabbed a handful of powder, stepped into the fire, and shouted his desired destination.

The Burrow.

Draco stumbled out of the fire to find Arthur and Molly sitting on the couch, across from Hermione. When he stepped out onto the hearth, Hermione looked shocked to see him.

“Draco?” she peeped, standing. “I expected you to apparate here tonight, once you saw my note.”

“Your note?” he asked, puzzled.

“I left you a note at home that we were invited to dinner.”

Draco sat beside her on a small, overstuffed loveseat. “I’m afraid I haven’t been home yet. Something else has brought me here, my dear.” Draco glanced at Arthur Weasley, who appeared to have had all of the color drain out of his face. Arthur cleared his throat.

“Alas,” Arthur breathed. “I fear we have mislead you, Hermione.”

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, looking to Molly.

Molly grabbed Arthur’s hand beside her. “We’ve had word that Ginny gave you the book. Did she not?”

“The blank one?” Hermione asked. She glanced at Draco for confirmation. “The one Harry threw to you before they threw us out?”

“It’s not blank,” Draco sighed. “It’s cursed. Nobody can read it who is born of Muggles, or so the inscription says.”

“What is it?” Hermione said.

“The diary of a madman,” Arthur scoffed. Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Not another bloody diary,” she said.

“You had better explain yourself,” Molly suggested to Arthur.

Arthur Weasley stood and stepped towards the fireplace. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his corduroy pants, which were a peculiar shade of mustard. His clothing appeared to be better suited to a man decades older than him, but he slouched like a weather-beaten old man.

“I was a boy at Howarts when several Muggle-born witches were killed on school grounds,” he began, voice shaking. “Three, in fact, before the culprit was apprehended. The fact that he was taken alive is thanks only to the fact that I dropped my wand, because the unforgivable words crossed my lips the moment I saw him standing over the body of his last victim.” Arthur clutched at his throat. “Obviously, the boy was caught, expelled, obliviated… locked up in Azkaban for what I hoped would be eternity.”

“Voldemort?” Hermione asked. "Why have we never heard of this?"

Arthur shook his head. “No, though Tom Riddle was responsible for this boy being sprung from Azkaban, and brainwashed into a new identity, though his old memories had been taken from him. You cannot make a bad wizard good again, even if you obliviate him. And I suspect you didn't know because it was the kind of horror our Headmaster couldn't bear placing on the legacy of the school. It would have certainly been cause to close Hogwarts for good, if the Ministry hadn't worked so hard to bury it beneath Tom Riddle's misdeeds.

“The next time I encountered the murderer, I was an apprentice in the Ministry. He was on our radar because he kept targeting Muggle-born witches who had renounced Magic, women who lived in Muggle London and no longer wished to be a part of wizard society. Muggle newspapers began to report on a ‘Jack the Ripper Copycat’. Though my own children were small in number and young at that time, and all male, I did not believe any of them were in danger… but several of my mates were scared for their own daughters, many of whom had one Muggle parent, or Muggle grandparents. So we did the only thing we could to protect all of our future children.” Arthur’s breath caught and he glanced at Molly.

“What did you do?” Hermione whispered.

“We made an unbreakable vow,” Arthur said. “That we would never let our future daughters and their children know an evil being like Him, let alone fall prey to him. But somehow, many, many years later, my one and only daughter was possessed by deeply evil magic.”

“Voldemort’s diary,” Draco suggested.

“Yes. Somehow, our vow ‘protected’ Ginny from truly being taken over by Him, but lest we forget that Harry was practically used as a Horcrux…” Arthur looked to Molly for the right words.

“Harry's mother was Muggle-born,” Molly offered. “So we think that perhaps Ginny’s body, in response to the vow and to Harry’s parentage--”

“It thinks Ginny is being possessed again, by the baby,” Hermione finished, horrified. “Wait…” She looked at Draco and pressed her eyes shut. “It’s Grimes, isn’t it?”

Draco took Hermione’s hand and squeezed. “Yes.”

“When he came into your life five years ago, I had no idea,” Arthur said to Hermione. “For all I knew, he was rotting in Azkaban without a memory.”

“And I was entirely removed from the wizard world,” Hermione reminded him.

“Exactly. All we’ve been able to surmise is that Voldemort reestablished some sort of purity quest in his mind, and made you the prime target.”

“But that must have happened before the final battle,” Draco said. “He never travelled in my parents’ circles, I would have known him.” The hairs on his arms stood on end to speak so frankly of that time in their lives.

“They must have been in contact, Grimes and Voldemort,” Molly said.

“The Dark Lord has been dead for ten years,” Hermione cried. “How can we still be living in his shadow?”

_...To be continued..._


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The threads continue to unravel. Draco and Hermione decide to take a chance.

“It doesn’t make sense!” Hermione cried, throwing her hands up. “How would a curse meant to protect the Weasley children from Evil force Ginny to have a miscarriage? Perhaps there’s a reason that can be explained through Muggle medicine. Loads of women have difficulty carrying to term, and unless Ginny herself was cursed… it doesn’t make sense that a protection spell would cause her to miscarry!” Hermione stood and paced before the fire.

“And another thing--how could you cast an Unbreakable Vow of protection over children that were merely hypothetical at that point?” Hermione said.

“She is right. My mother and Snape made a bonded promise,” Draco said. “But it was a vow to guide me in the Dark Lord’s plan, and ultimately to keep me from killing Dumbledore. But if Snape had failed to protect me, he was the one who would have paid the price. Ginny could not have been affected unless you had, somehow… cursed her, instead of protecting her.”

“Are you suggesting that I cursed my child?” Arthur said, aghast. “That this is what I wanted?”

“You’re certainly allowing her to take the worst of it upon herself,” Draco said.

“Mister Malfoy!” Molly gasped.

Draco sighed heavily. “If you do not believe that Ginny is really cursed, you cannot let her go on thinking it.”

“She won’t talk to me,” Hermione said tearfully. “She and Harry think they cannot confide in me. Why do they think that? Who won’t let them talk?”

“It must be so much more than that,” Molly gasped, standing suddenly. She held out her hands to Hermione, who clasped them tightly. 

Draco looked from Arthur, to Molly, to Hermione… and then it came to him. They didn’t know either. The gag order hadn’t come from them. It had come from someone inside the Ministry.

“Hermione--didn’t you say that you saw Grimes and Ginny at a Ministry building?” Draco asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I forced the cloaking spell to reveal its origin and the M appeared on the door, plain as day. But I couldn’t find it again if I tried. I only found it the first time on accident, wandering by the address I saw in your briefcase.”

Arthur rubbed his face. “Perhaps the reason they cannot speak of it is because they must protect someone else involved. Perhaps it’s you, Hermione.”

“Mister Weasley, are Blanks triggered by people with whom they have a strong emotional pull?” Draco asked.

“They can be,” Arthur said. “But I know as much as you do about his condition, currently.”

“So Hermione seeing Grimes could be less about triggering Grimes than about triggering Hermione,” Molly suggested. Draco nodded in agreement, but he stood.

“It’s awfully convenient that Grimes reappears at the same time his brother’s case file lands on my desk,” Draco said. “Someone must have known about Hermione and I before the gala.”

“But you got that case before we reconnected,” Hermione said. 

“I hate to say it,” Arthur said, “but perhaps your meeting was… orchestrated.”

Draco’s eyes flashed to Hermione. “Who suggested the date with the Muggle?” he ground out.

Hermione’s eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling. “Ginny set me up with  _ Gary _ ,” she emphasized.

“Who chose the restaurant?” Draco asked.

“Gary did,” Hermione said.

“What was Gary’s surname?” Draco said.

“Cross.”

“I have an idea,” he said, standing. “It’s just a hunch, but it might pay off.”

“What are you thinking?” Arthur Weasley asked.

Draco sighed. “Hermione and I have accidentally crossed paths only twice in ten years: once for the memorial dedication, and once when we both had dates at the same Muggle restaurant. A restaurant that was unmarked, and place I would not have known about if it weren’t for my own date.”

Hermione stepped towards him, face pale. “Pansy. You think she had something to do with this.”

“Whatever you’re planning to do, however you’re moving forward from here--please tell us what you find,” Arthur said. He held his hand out to his wife. Molly clasped it tightly. 

“Despite everything that happened, with…” Molly trailed off, but she looked at Hermione pointedly. “We still think of you like family.”

Hermione hugged the Weasleys, both. She and Draco departed quickly through the floo; he held her close and shouted out the name of their destination.

Price, Strauss, and Finkel. His firm.

They arrived in Draco’s office and he instantly went to work, sitting down at his desk and typing rapidly on his computer. Hermione took in the sight of his office. The room was sparse, white, and sterile. There was a fireplace with a simple surround and mantle. He had a small, wiry desk and two black chairs next to it. The desk bore one slim computer, a page-a-day calendar with Winston Churchill quotes, a cup with three pens, a notepad, and a small, frozen photograph of his mother. Otherwise, the room seemed too large for the sparing furniture. It didn’t seem like the kind of place he would want to spend much time. It could use Hermione’s touch. She made a mental note to suggest it later. Supposing they won the case and he kept his office. And his job. 

“Draco, what are you looking for?” Hermione asked, sitting down across the desk from him.

He glanced up at her warmly, but continued his frantic search. “When I first got this position at the firm, I may or may not have convinced IT to hook me up to the British National database…”

Hermione laughed. “That must be illegal!”

“Are you going to tattle on me, Granger?” 

“That is cheating.”

“It’s not cheating if it’s public record. It just means I don’t have to file any paperwork to look someone up.”

“Oh, I see,” Hermione said. “You’re just lazy!”

He wrinkled his nose at her. His eyes searched the screen in front of him; the glow of the screen shone in his eyes. Then, they widened.

“Look at this!” He exclaimed. Hermione ran around to read over his shoulder. He pointed at a photograph on the screen. There he was. Gary Cross. But that wasn’t really his last name. His real surname was Grimes. 

Was he another brother? A cousin? He was certainly younger than both Boyd and Joseph; his profile said that he was only a few years older than Draco.

“Why is he in there?” Hermione asked.

“This says… sexual assault. And… other things. He was on probation for several years, never served hard time.” Draco read a little more and then his eyes flicked up at her. “He turned Boyd in.”

“Is that what it says?”

“Not in so many words, but he must have. It says that he was an informant in the case against his cousin.”

“That must be why he changed his name. So we’re in agreement that his involvement isn’t accidental, then.”

“I think he’s part of it, but I don’t think he’s a danger to you at this point,” Draco said. 

“But someone is. Someone has worked very hard to make sure that I know Joe is alive,” Hermione said. “To rattle me? To get me to leave the Ministry? It’s too late for that!”

“Hermione,” Draco said firmly, grasping her hands. “Why else would anyone go through all of the trouble to coordinate all of this?”

Hermione squeezed his hands back and swallowed. “They want me dead.”

“I think that is what we should assume, for now, to be safe.”

“But why not kill me on the street? Why not follow me home? Why not impersonate someone I trust or get me when I was in the hospital? If their goal is just to kill me, they have missed prime opportunities.”

“Maybe they want us both. Maybe they meant to take us at the gala, but they were thwarted.” Draco scratched his cheek. 

“Maybe Ginny and Harry are the bait,” Hermione said. “They want me to push for answers like I always do so they can trap me… and when they have me, they’ll have you.”

“And Pansy is somehow involved, here, too.” Draco frowned. “We have run out of time to solve this before court reconvenes… come to court with me. Sit behind me in the courtroom and let’s see what happens. Maybe if they know that we’re onto them, they’ll make themselves known.”

Hermione sighed. “I guess I’m going to court.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More corruption reveals itself in Grimes' trial, and an unlikely ally comes to Draco's aid.

She wore black. An unassuming cardigan over a simple tweed dress. Her hair was pulled back into a low chignon, her makeup was tasteful and natural, and her boots were simple leather zip-ups. He had positioned her in the balcony with a good view of the jury, where she could see him and be seen by those who might reveal themselves, without disrupting the proceedings. He could feel her gaze on the back of his head; warmth spread over him. She was reassuring him that she was alright.

As the jury filed into their seats, and the benches filled with distant Grimes relations and looky-loos alike, Draco checked his pocket watch. Nine a.m. on the dot. Judge Murray emerged from his chambers beyond the witness stand. The court rose as the judge assumed his position. He motioned to the bailiff. Boyd Grimes was hustled to his seat by two hulking men in robes not unlike Judge Murray’s own… to any Muggle onlooker, they probably looked very official and solemn. Draco knew better. Men in such robes had once escorted him to a cell on a lonely island.

Boyd Grimes was being held in Azkaban and tried in a Muggle court. But why?

There was no way for Draco to expose what little he knew without also exposing the existence of magic to every non-magical person in the court. But what little he knew was enough to convince him that the Ministry had been compromised.

The doors at the back of the court swung open and all in attendance turned to look at the late arrival. Two hearts sank as a man trotted briskly down the aisle and took the empty chair beside Grimes.

“Mister Zabini, punctuality is a virtue in my court,” Judge Murray warned.

“My apologies, Judge Murray. Traffic was murder,” Blaise said with a wolfish grin. Draco squeezed his hand so tightly into a fist that his palm bled. He retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket and gripped the cloth to stop the bleeding, lest Blaise get any inkling that he had ruffled Draco.

“May I approach, Judge Murray?” Draco asked, standing. The judge motioned Draco and Blaise forward. Blaise’s face bore a shit-eating grin, as if he thought he had finally won. “Why wasn’t I notified that Mister Grimes had sought out new council?” he whispered to the Judge.

Judge Murray sighed. “Councilor Pill took ill yesterday, Mister Malfoy. It was rather sudden, so another lawyer from Pill’s firm was appointed to resume Grimes’ representation.”

“Who appointed Zabini?” Draco ground out, not daring to look at the man in question.

“I did,” Murray said. Draco’s eyes darkened. The case was lost. Judge Murray was either an accomplice, or had been coerced (whether by magical or non-magical means), and the one person who had recently attacked Hermione was now the lawyer for the defense--defense of a man who was being guarded by Azkaban’s finest. Draco resisted the urge to look up at Hermione. He wished she wasn’t there. He wished desperately that he had hidden her away at the seaside cottage until the case was over.

“What’s the matter, Draco?” Blaise jeered. “Don’t like surprises?”

“Not especially,” Draco said. He wracked his brain for any wandless spells that he could cast to protect Hermione, or to make Blaise reveal what was actually going on. There was nothing he could do. Besides, even if he could cast some sort of spell, his accuracy without a wand was no match for talent like Hermione. His wand was hidden inside the lining of his fine coat, and at least three people in the room were probably armed with their own wands, besides Hermione.

How had Blaise gotten here? The last time he had seen the infernal man, Blaise was being carted away by Kingsley Shacklebolt and a gaggle of Aurors. It wasn’t right.

“You may return to your seats, if you’ve nothing else to say, Mister Malfoy,” Judge Murray said. Draco turned on his heel and strode back to his table. It was empty without a co-counselor. The partners at Draco's firm had entrusted him with the conclusion of the case, so he didn't have co-counsel available anymore. It seemed now like less of a compliment to Draco's abilities, and more that his partners had given up on him. Even Grimes had backup, even if the guards weren’t necessarily on his side. His backup was in the balcony.

Just then, a page ran in from the side door and handed the bailiff a wax-sealed note. The bailiff conveyed the note to Judge Murray, who waved the page away and read his missive. He cleared his throat. “Mister Malfoy, when were you going to tell me that you had a new witness?”

Draco tried not to look startled. He hadn’t any witnesses to speak of, let alone someone new. He didn’t have anything else on Boyd Grimes; three days off had merely revealed the extent of Joseph Grimes' crimes, but no witnesses had revealed themselves in the process. None who would testify in this court, anyway. Judge Murray gestured for the bailiff to pass off the name of the new witness to Blaise, nevermind that Draco would’ve liked to see the name of his own surprise witness.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Draco said. He hazarded a glance at Blaise, who was glaring down at the missive.

“Are you kidding?” Blaise whispered fiercely. “What are you playing at?”

“What’s the matter, Zabini? Don’t like surprises?” Draco said. He looked back as the doors to the court room opened and Ronald Bilius Weasley himself entered. “If it’s all the same to you, Judge Murray, I’d like to begin by calling my first witness.”

“At this point, why not?” Judge Murray sighed.

“The prosecution calls Ron Weasley to the stand,” Draco said, standing. Ron stepped up to the witness stand and the bailiff swore him in. Draco studied Ron’s face for any sort of answer about why the man was there--or how. Ron sent a pointed glance to the balcony and then nodded to Draco.

“Mister Weasley, what is your relationship to the defendant?” Draco asked, clasping his hands behind his back. Though he himself knew the Weasley family’s ties to Grimes, he still didn’t quite understand why Ron was _there_ , in the courtroom.

“I am acquainted with the ex-girlfriend of Joseph Grimes.”

“The defendant’s brother,” Draco offered. Ron nodded.

“Yes. We dated as teenagers, long before she met Joseph Grimes. I believe she was Boyd Grimes’ intended final victim, as tribute to his deceased brother,” Ron said.

“What makes you think that?” Draco asked.

“Boyd Grimes’ seventh victim lived in the same block that she did,” Ron said. Draco hadn’t known that. He should have, but when he had started seeing Hermione, he hadn’t thought there was a correlation between her and Grimes, so he hadn’t even thought to check. “She also fits the physical profile of the other victims.”

“That’s conjecture!” Blaise protested, standing. “How would this witness be privy to information about any alleged victims?”

“Their photographs were run up in The Telegraph for anyone to see,” Ron said. “They printed a memorial piece for victims of the New Ripper. All of them were women in their late twenties or early thirties with brown hair, and they were all former students of the same private school.”

“Sit down, Mister Zabini,” the judge said. “Proceed.” The Telegraph was a Muggle newspaper, one that operated without the influence of the Ministry or any magical persons. Apparently Ron had a habit of reading Muggle newspapers... not wholly surprising considering his father's fascination with Muggles.

“Mister Weasley, could you explain to the court your true connection to the Grimes family?” Draco asked, giving Ron a pointed look. Of course he couldn’t. Even though Ron had valuable information about the magical workings of this case, he couldn’t divulge any knowledge that would get a Muggle court to convict Boyd Grimes.

“Well, my sister is a hospice nurse at St. Christopher’s,” Ron said. “She treats disabled veterans with terminal brain injuries. Joseph Grimes is one of her patients.” Translation: Ginny was a nurse for obliviated Deatheaters, which was hiding behind an auspicious facade. That explained why she had been seen with Joseph Grimes, though it wasn’t completely clear why she couldn’t tell Hermione.

“That is confidential!” Blaise protested, standing once more.

“I saw him there myself when I visited her at work,” Ron said.

“So you’ve seen for yourself that Joseph Grimes is alive,” Draco said.

“Liar!” Boyd shouted, pointing a shaky finger at Ron. “My brother died from brain cancer! Years ago!” The man was hysterical. Boyd Grimes didn’t know that his brother was alive, which meant that he had invoked his brother’s name merely to throw Draco off his scent. The Defense hadn’t known that Joseph Grimes was alive at all… so maybe the Ministry wasn’t behind all of this! Still… someone _was_ orchestrating an elaborate scheme in the name of Joseph Grimes.

Boyd Grimes crumbled into his seat while Blaise whispered furiously to him. The court was aflutter with murmurs and speculation. Draco and Ron exchanged a look that belied a sense of hope in them both. Draco finally allowed himself to look up at Hermione in the balcony. She was gone.

Draco panicked. “Where is she?” he breathed. “Ron, she’s gone! Where is she?”

Ron stood and followed Draco as he bolted from the courtroom, despite the shouts of Judge Murray for everyone to return to order. Draco pushed through the heavy mahogany doors and skidded to a halt. He glanced down the hallway in both directions but there was no sign of her. “Perhaps she excused herself to the loo,” Ron offered. Draco shook his head.

“No, she wouldn’t have left in the middle of everything,” Draco said.

“I suppose you know her better than I do, mate,” Ron said. Draco looked at him, but Ron’s face only showed his sincerity. “Would she have gone home?”

“Not without me,” Draco said. “No, I think one of two things happened: either she went to investigate that St. Christopher place that you mentioned…” A lump caught in his throat. He couldn’t say his worst fear out loud.

“Or she was taken,” Ron finished for him. Draco nodded. “Let’s go to St. Christopher’s, then.”

“Lead the way,” Draco said. Ron pointed to the lift. The two men raced to the lift as it opened and let out several people. They leapt inside and Draco frantically pressed the button to close the door before anyone else could join them. Ron double checked that his wand was still up his sleeve and re-stowed it in an inner pocket of his coat..

“We better side-along,” Ron said. “It will be faster.” He clasped Draco’s shoulder and held out his other hand. Draco took it in a firm handshake. A force pulled sharply and then two men disappeared from the descending lift. They landed with a jolt in a dimly-lit lobby.

Behind the desk sat Ginny Potter, with a startled look on her face.

“Is she here?” Ron panted as he tried to catch his breath from the force of apparition. Draco braced his hands on his hips.

“No,” Ginny said. “She hasn’t come back since the first time. Has… has Hermione gone missing?” Ginny’s hands went over her mouth. Draco had to brace himself up on the counter. His head fell forward.

“We’ve come from court,” Ron explained.

“Why were _you_ there?” Ginny asked Ron.

“I received a note that I was needed to testify,” Ron said.

“From who?” Draco asked, looking up at him. Ron shrugged.

“Don’t know. I assumed it was from you, mate.” Ron put his hand on Draco’s shoulder. Ron reached into his jacket pocket and produced the small note. The scrawl was messy, not at all like Draco’s all-capital print. The handwriting did not resemble Hermione’s perfect, loopy cursive either. It was familiar, and yet, he couldn’t place it.

“It’s not from her, then,” Draco confirmed. “We’ve got to find her!”

“We’ll find her,” Ron said.

“Maybe she’s at home, resting,” Ginny offered. Draco leaned forward very close to her face.

“I swear, if you’ve put her in danger by keeping all of this from her, I will never forgive you. If something happens to her, you’ll see a side of me that no one has ever seen.”

“Come on,” Ron said gently, pulling Draco back from Ginny, who was silently weeping. “We’ve got a lot more places to go.”

Ron cast an apologetic glance at Ginny and followed Draco out of St. Christopher’s front door. The door let out onto a nondescript street that was practically deserted, save for two desperate wizards and several large snowflakes. The winter had been brutal with snow, which pushed on even as spring drew near. Draco was sick of snow.

The two men continued their search with every known Hermione haunt: the Manor, the Muggle library, St. Mungo’s, her old apartment, the restaurant in which they had re-met, the Muggle hospital she had stayed in afterwards, the Burrow, the Nest, and finally Draco’s apartment. She was nowhere to be found.

With every new place, Draco grew more desperate. Nevermind that he had left his briefcase in court or strode out of the courtroom during what would likely prove to be his last case as a barrister. Someone had taken her. Someone had her, and they had taken her from right under his nose. He would not hesitate to kill whoever had her.

Draco paced his apartment, trying to pull any possible clue from memory. Ron sat on his couch, beside the bulldog pillow, and watched.

“There are three places we haven’t checked yet,” Ron said. Draco stopped pacing. “One of those being Hogwarts.”

“I don’t think she’d go there after all this time,” Draco said. “It would be… painful for her. Not to mention going in the middle of the trial and not telling me why.”

“How about your place by the sea?”

“Perhaps,” Draco sighed. He rubbed his face in frustration. “Still, the timing is off. What’s the other place?”

“The Ministry.”

“Absolutely not,” Draco said. “Wait a minute… there’s one place she might have gone, if she noticed what I noticed. But I hope to Gods she didn’t.”

“What are you talking about?” Ron asked, standing.

“The guards for Boyd Grimes were from Azkaban,” Draco said.

“Why would she go to Azkaban?”

“To get answers, probably. If that’s where Boyd Grimes is being held, then surely someone there has overheard his ravings. Actually, it’s smart,” Draco said. “That’s where we should go. Even if she isn’t there.”

“Are you sure, mate?” Ron asked. “Would that be wise, considering… everything?”

“It’s sweet of you to worry about me,” Draco jeered, though it was less a jab and more muscle memory. “But I’d walk through the Forbidden Forest naked, covered in unicorn blood to find her. Azkaban is nothing, if it helps us find her.”

Ron chuckled despite himself. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Draco took a handful of floo powder from the bowl on the mantle and stepped into the fireplace. He threw down the powder and declared his destination boldly, without hesitation.

Azkaban.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Azkaban, a ghost, and Hermione's fate become further intertwined.
> 
> PS. Thanks for hanging with me, loves. I will be bringing this tale to a close in the next few chapters, so stay tuned for the conclusion!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The true villain is revealed, but there is more at stake. Someone is alive who was supposed to be dead.

Hermione gripped the black bars until her hands cramped. She was beginning to see more clearly; she could make out a slumped figure in the cell across the aisle, but beyond that, the light was too dim to make out anything in particular--and she hadn’t yet cleared the chloroform from her system, anyway, so she couldn’t be sure what was real. Cloaked figures floated past her cell, close enough that the fabric from their voluminous capes brushed Hermione’s fingers.

The last thing she remembered was stepping outside of the courtroom to take a breath. She hadn’t realized just how close the last victim had lived to her old apartment. Hearing it from Ron’s lips was surreal. He had always had a habit of reading The Telegraph, but Hermione never would’ve expected that particular quirk to come in handy. None of Ron’s quirks seemed particularly beneficial to her, let alone to Draco’s case. Everything was upside-down. 

A tiny stone whizzed past Hermione’s face. She gasped. Where had it come from? There was no one in her direct line of sight except the lump of a person across the way… in fact, she wasn’t entirely sure that it  _ was _ a person. Or if it was, she was fairly certain they had perished. Dead people can’t throw stones.

Another stone glanced off of Hermione’s right shoulder and she whirled around, half expecting to see someone standing there. Instead, she saw mangled fingers curled around the wall of the cell beside her, in a gap between the black bars and the cinderblocks. The pointer finger curled, beckoning her closer. 

She peered down the aisle, as far as she could see. There was no sign of a guard or cloaked figure. She sidled closer to the disembodied hand, pressing her back against the wall that joined her cell with the hand’s.

“Mudblood?” 

The tiny, nearly inaudible growl from beyond the wall was more inquiry than accusation.

“Yes!” Hermione whispered back. No sense in pressing the issue of political correctness now. 

“Knew it was you,” the voice said. The hand reappeared around the stones and gestured to her to grasp it. Hermione held up her hand but she paused. How did she know that this person wasn’t going to hurt her?

“Can I trust you?” she asked, hand hovering over the faceless requester.

“You can’t trust anyone--except the ones you never could,” the voice said. 

“Draco,” she breathed, though she hadn’t meant to voice the unbidden plea for help. She longed for him.

“You  _ are _ bright.”

Hermione grasped the hand urgently. It was warm, comforting even, in a place that was so cold and desolate as to be soul-crushing. Whoever the hand belonged to, they knew more about her than she knew.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“You are trying to understand something,” the voice said. “But someone doesn’t want you to know. That’s why you’re here.”

“So I won’t find something out?”

“So you’ll be apart from your clarity.”

“From Draco, I expect,” she sighed. The hand squeezed hers gently. 

“They took me from him, too, you know?” the voice said. The sound of pained sniffles echoed, and the hand released hers. Hermione stepped closer to the gap and pressed her palms to the wall. 

“They took you from who?” she asked.

“My son.”

Hermione swallowed hard. The person in the cell beside her had been there for ten years. She knew, then, where she was. She knew that the Ministry was behind her presence there, and she had no way of telling Draco where she was. Someone had taken her wand, her shoes, and her cardigan. She felt lucky, though. They could’ve taken more. They could’ve left her a veritable vegetable like Draco’s mum.

Instead, they put her in a cell beside none other than Lucius Malfoy, a man who had once slipped Tom Riddle’s diary into her best friend’s cauldron. A man who had championed the Pure Blood cause, and cheered for the demise of people like her. Father of the man who loved her. 

“Mister Malfoy,” Hermione breathed. “It’s all right.” 

“What is right, my dear?” the man coughed. “Nothing is right.”

“No, it isn’t. They took me from Draco’s hearing.”

“It isn’t ideal, grabbing you out in public,” he said. “They must be desperate. They must have tried before.”

“You’ve seen this before--them kidnapping people?” she lowered her voice when she heard voices sounding at the end of the hall.

“Go sit down. Don’t look at them. Don’t make a sound,” he whispered fiercely. Hermione scrambled to the metal cot that served as her only furniture and lay down, with her back to the metal bars. The sharp tap of boots sounded right outside her cell and stopped in front of the door. 

“This one? Really?” a deep voice said, skeptically. “So soon? She just arrived--”

“We know.” Another voice spoke in a hushed tone. “She’s the one.”

Keys fumbled at her lock. The hulking door slid open with a clang. The sharp boots tapped closer to her and a hand touched her shoulder. She went limp.

***

Draco and Ron hurtled into a dank office with just a few candles for light. Draco was immediately stunned and he collapsed against a wooden desk in the center of the room. Ron hugged the wall as five wands were trained on them. Draco hazarded a glance at his new mate and breathed out in relief when Ron winked. 

“Come on, Shacklebolt!” Ron said with a laugh. “It’s only Us. You should be used to me bursting in on you by now!” He straightened his jacket and sat in a chair across the desk from a dangerously angry Kingsley Shacklebolt. Draco struggled to his feet and pushed himself back into the other visitor’s chair. 

“As we understand it, you’ve got quite an operation, here, mate,” Ron said. “I’d like to know what my hard-earned wages are paying for on this gods-forsaken rock! And can we get some new uniforms on these guards? This isn’t a funeral parlour.” Ron gestured towards the five Death Eaters whose wands were still trained on them. “Oh, and another thing! Could you quit kidnapping people? It’s macabre.”

Draco tried not to stare at Weasley’s boldness, but it seemed to have hit a particularly difficult nerve in Kingsley Shacklebolt. The minister of magic leaned forward and clasped his hands together; a furrow had built so deeply in between his eyebrows that it appeared to have caused a chasm in the man’s otherwise well-controlled resolve.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said finally. Draco scoffed, but Ron held up his hand.

“Please. You took Hermione Granger,” Ron said. “We are certain that it must have been a mistake, but we’d like to get her back presently.” 

Kingsley said nothing at first. He merely looked Draco up and down. “You were on Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad, weren’t you?” the Minister of Magic asked.

Draco looked down at his hands and cleared his throat. “Look, can we just take Granger and be on our way?” he asked.

“Don’t you remember what she wanted?” Kingsley pushed. He stood up, buttoning his long velvet coat. “Obedience. Order.”

“She was dealt with,” Ron spat. 

“No,” Kingsley said, rapping his knuckles on his desk. “She was weak. She showed her hand before everything was ready. She,” Kingsley said, rounding the desk, “didn’t know how to deal with subordinate magic.”

“Subordinate magic?’ What’s that?” Ron asked.

“Toxic magic,” Kingsley said.

“Mudbloods, you mean,” Draco said.

“Conscientious objectors. Rebels. Wizards who think only of themselves and their selfish causes,” Kingsley said. “Their parentage has little to do with it. Though, you’ve both given me pause our entire acquaintance. And now, I’ve grown tired of you.” Kingsley moved towards the door to his office and turned the handle. “You may go.”

“Not without Hermione!” Ron protested. Draco put his hand on Weasley’s arm. 

“But... You're one of us. You ran the pirate radio station during the war,” Draco said. “You’re a pureblood! You’re a--”

“A what, Mister Malfoy?” Kingsley asked, folding his arms. “A Slytherin? Yes. As all the most powerful wizards are.”

“A member of the Order of the Phoenix, just like Us,” Draco said, standing. 

“Was,” Kingsley corrected. “Someday, the Wizarding World will be revealed to the Muggle World, but it won’t happen on my watch. People like Grimes--like Granger--they don’t understand what’s at stake if we are revealed, so they move into the neighborhoods of unsuspecting Muggles and make themselves at home. All the while, practicing Magic openly and without pause--endangering all of us in the process. And one day, a neighbor stops by to borrow a cup of sugar, and sees Marcus Flint’s vaccuum moving by itself, and that’s all it takes for us to become  _ hunted _ .

“You see, Malfoy, we want the same things from the world. We want to have our families, and raise children with a vision of the future that includes peace--harmony.” Kingsley shut his office door again and reached up his sleeve to retrieve his wand. He pressed the tip of the sixteen-inch ash wand into his palm until it drew blood. He winced. “And soon,” Kingsley said, squeezing his hand over the turkish rug, “magical blood will be shed in the name of fear.” One dark drop of Kingsley’s blood splashed on the face of a white stag in the rug’s fantastical scene.

“So keeping Hermione hostage will prevent the revelation of Magic in the Muggle world--is that it?” Ron asked, whipping out his wand. The Death Eaters inched closer; one of the masked guards pressed his wand into the tip of Ron’s neck, but Ron was not deterred.

“But Muggles already believe in Magic,” Draco said softly. “They read about it in their books. They have little talking boxes that transmit voices and pictures. They believe it’s possible to fall in love with someone upon the first instance of meeting. They can produce food or transportation at the press of a button--all without a wand. It might not be spellbound magic, but it’s magical to them. They already believe in Us.” Draco stood and put his hands into his pockets.

“What will happen to Muggles if they find out that we exist? They’re already occupied with wars over bigger things,” Draco said. “Muggles kill each other over  _ water _ . They’re distracted. Their minds are so far removed from our petty issues--if they knew about Voldemort, they would’ve dismissed him as another dictator with a lust for power. Muggles aren’t afraid.”

“I didn’t want to believe it,” Kingsley breathed. “But you’ve been seduced by them! Merlin--I never thought I’d see the day that a Malfoy praised a Muggle.” He chuckled and Draco felt his blood rise.

He wanted to strangle the man. 

“You’ve seen what they can do, Malfoy!” Kingsley asserted.

Draco scoffed. “What Muggles can do? They kill each other with their fists and murder each other in cold blood--but no Muggle ever scarred me the way Harry Potter did. The way my father did, convincing me to take the Dark Mark--”

“So you admit that it would be dangerous for Magic to become known!”

“No!” Draco shouted, slamming his hand down on the desk. “You’re twisted! You’re sick, Shacklebolt!”

“Best not insult the man who’s got Hermione,” Ron breathed.

“I’m the only one who realizes the severity of this situation,” Kingsley said. “Once Grimes is dealt with, we’ll be back on track.”

“You sent the note to me!” Ron exclaimed. “But why? If you don’t want Muggles to realize that Magic exists, why would you send a Wizard to testify in a Muggle court?”

“For the same reason that Blaise Zabini was named as Grimes’ defense lawyer,” Draco said with a groan. “He thought you’d botch the case and it would be thrown out.”

Ron looked hurt and immediately murderous. “But it didn’t work,” Ron said. “Because even that Muggle jury was ready to convict Grimes after they heard what I had to say. Even with a deadbeat like Zabini on defense.”

“You’ve played your part, Weasley,” Kingsley said. “As soon as the Wizengamot reconvenes, you’ll both be tried for treason against Wizard-kind.”

“On what grounds?” Draco asked.

“Conspiring with Muggles for the demise of the Ministry. Treason, at its finest.” Kingsley smiled with a malice that made Draco remember why he nearly got disbarred. It brought him back to the day when that murderous dog had said that his children deserved the torture they received at his hand. Kingsley was no better. In fact, he was worse. He was also a highly-skilled auror, with at least five Death Eaters on his side, not to mention the countless guards littered through Azkaban. They were stuck. 

For the first time in over ten years, Draco allowed that quiet, white rage to fill him down to his toes. He thought of all the times he had looked into Hermione’s eyes and seen deep into her heart. He remembered the look on his mother’s face when she finally remembered him. He remembered casting his first patronus charm, and the overwhelming joy he felt knowing that white magic was possible--and powerful.

_ Expulso! _

Draco cast the spell wordlessly and it blasted every man backwards. He held out his hand to a stunned Ron, who merely grasped his wrist and panted for hair. Draco retrieved his own wand from the breast pocket of his jacket and pointed it at Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“ _ Petrificus Totalus! _ ” Draco exclaimed at the writhing Minister of Magic. The man froze as still as a statue. 

“ _ Expelliarmus! _ ” Ron shouted. A wand leapt out of a Death Eater’s hand and Ron spun it like a golden gun, holstering it in his jacket pocket. He and Draco held up their wands at the four remaining Death Eaters.

“Drop your wands, gents,” Draco warned the remaining men. Each one of the Death Eaters seemed paralyzed in defense, none willing to drop their weapons. Draco shuffled back until he was back-to-back with Ron. 

“Wotcher, mate?” Ron whispered. “Petrify or die?”

“On three. You take the tall one,” Draco said.

“Excellent,” Ron said. “One.”

“Two,” Draco said.

“Three!” they said, together.

In a flash, three Death Eaters were down, stiff as boards and petrified… but so was Draco. He writhed on the floor as the fourth Death Eater hit him with a wordless  _ Sectumsempra _ . The pain was unbearable. He clutched at his throat and ripped open his collar to relieve the pain. Still it persisted, ripping through his skin as if it was nothing.

Ron crouched down over Draco and held up his wand to the fifth and final guard. 

“It ends here, mate,” Ron warned the cloaked figure. He grabbed Draco’s shoulder to steady him, and Draco grabbed Ron’s wrist in turn. 

“Just leave me, then!” Draco spat.

“All due respect, wasn’t talking to you,” Ron said, squeezing Draco’s shoulder. “ _ Reducto! _ ” 

The man exploded into pieces and Ron was knocked backward. He scrambled to Draco, who was gritting his teeth in pain. Ron held out his hand and Draco grasped it. “Come on, mate. We’ve got to find her before I give the Ministry grounds to lock me up here for a thousand years. Do you think you can walk?”

Draco breathed out heavily. He was sliced from toes to the top of his head with vicious swipes… but miraculously unharmed otherwise. He would have a nasty scar over his right eye. Hermione seemed to like his rugged look, so Ron wasn’t too worried about that. More about keeping the man from passing out as he walked. 

“I can walk,’ Draco breathed. He allowed Ron to help him stand, but not without excruciating pain. His shins were sliced from the spell and standing was horrific. 

It was no small feet binding the Minister of Magic and four remaining Death Eaters; Ron had a heck of a time casting the spells without Draco’s help, but he needed to save his energy for the escape from Azkaban. Once the men were bound, Ron braced one arm around Draco’s waist and they beat a hasty retreat for the upper floors, where Ron supposed Hermione must be held. 

“Once…” Draco winced. They stepped up several stairs before he needed to pause and rest. “Once we’re out of here, remind me to thank you,” Draco said.

“I’ll never let you forget it,” Ron said. “But I’ll literally carry you if you can’t get your act together and move those feet, Malfoy.” He was only partially joking, but Draco laughed nonetheless.

“I’d like to hit you,” Draco breathed. 

“Yeah, I think you’ll be just fine,” Ron said.

They made it to the second floor. Ron helped Draco sit against the wall and then peered through the door to the second floor corridor. He counted only two guards, both of whom seemed to be stationed just before a cell at the end of the hall. 

“There’s only two of them,” Ron whispered. “They’re just talking in front of a cell--no, wait. They’re opening it… it’s her! It’s Hermione.”

“You see her?” Draco panted in relief. 

“It’s her, mate! She’s right there,” Ron said. He watched in horror as one guard struck Hermione across the cheek. He winced and made a fist.

“What is it?” Draco asked.

“One of them hit her.”

Draco breathed out sharply. He pushed up to stand, threw open the door and held up his wand towards the guards at the far end of the hallway.

“Stop! You might hit her!” Ron said, grabbing his arm.

“I won’t,” Draco said. He narrowed his eyes. “ _ Verum Sagittum! _ ” 

A golden arrow shot from the end of Draco’s wand and pierced the skull of the first guard. The second pulled Hermione in front of him like a shield. Her eyes pleaded with Draco. He nodded to her and lowered his wand. The guard pulled Hermione backwards until he reached a door at the far end of the hallway. He flung it open and pulled her through it. As soon as the guard disappeared from view, Draco and Ron made a break for it. The prisoners screamed as the two men ran down the long hall of cells, but one voice stood out from the others.

“Draco! My son!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Just a few more chapters, my darlings!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final confrontation.

Draco could hear the blood in his ears pulsating. He couldn’t hear anything else. His feet were stuck to the floor. He was afraid to breathe because if he did, he might crumble. 

“Draco! Go  _ on _ !” Ron urged, but Draco couldn’t move. 

“It’s  _ him _ , isn’t it?” Draco whispered. Ron’s face fell. He nodded.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling right now, but you have to get to Hermione.”

“My mum… After all this time--”

“She’ll be fine. She’s a Malfoy.” 

Draco looked up at his unlikely friend and felt an unusual respect for the Weasley. Ron gestured towards the door. Draco didn’t hazard a glance back at the man who had called out to him; instead, he limped towards the door. Ron didn’t follow.

“Aren’t you coming?” Draco asked.

“I better stay down here and keep watch for guards,” Ron said. “Worst case scenario, if it comes to it, just blow them all up. You have a patronus that would scare any Dementor out of his pajamas, and if you have to use an Unforgivable, I’ll forgive you personally.”

Draco nodded. Ron had a point; it would be better if one of them kept watch, so to speak. He needed to reach Hermione before she was harmed, because if he lost her...

The stairs were absolute murder on his slashed legs but he used the pain like fuel. He could hear the tap of feet as the guard circled up the stairs above him, leading her to the roof. That was a hell of a lot of stairs and he was rapidly losing his momentum. Draco stopped, imagined the face of the guard who was leading Hermione up the stairs and concentrated on Apparating directly to her. The pressure in the air from the wards was strong and dampened any harnessable energy, but Draco was prepared to burn up a star just to reach her. He would have to make his own. 

Draco slowed down his heart rate and focused solely on the pulses bringing blood into the chambers. It was like Occlumency in reverse, by focusing a concentrated block of energy that he would (hopefully) unleash, he might just break the Azkaban wards.

His palms tingled with static energy. He gathered the wards close in his mind. If he was able to break through the wards, he might be able to apparate straight away. If he couldn’t entirely break through, he would at least try to make a launch pad out of the spark from the clash. He imagined he would only have about a second to apparate once he had broken through. 

Draco tested his theory and focused once again on apparition, but nothing happened… and yet, he sensed a weak shimmer in the wards. Again, he tried to apparate and his body lurched forward. Almost! He  _ had _ to force the wards to open. Draco pointed his wand at the floor. 

“ _ Reducto! _ ” he shouted, pushing his will into apparating to Hermione. The air crackled with a deafening pop. Draco hurtled upwards and collided with the guard, taking them all to the ground. An unconscious Hermione started to slide down the stairs and Draco lunged for her hand. His knuckles were white as he gripped her wrist and caught his breath. He hoped she hadn’t hit her head during the fall. The guard, on the other hand, was bleeding profusely from a large puncture in his neck; the deep red blood pooled on the steps and trickled ever downward. 

Draco looked down at his wand, which bore the blood of the guard. Merlin. He hadn’t meant to kill the man like that. He hadn’t know quite what was going to happen after he managed to apparate--if he managed it. He supposed he was lucky that he hadn’t knocked the guard and Hermione over the ledge and killed them all.

Draco cupped the back of Hermione’s head and lifted her until she was cradled against his chest. He had never been so relieved in his life. Her shallow breaths tickled his neck. Draco wondered why Ron hadn’t followed like he had said, but he would meet up with him again. For now, he had to focus on getting down the stairs with an unconscious Hermione and several deep gashes throughout his body. Draco held Hermione tightly around the waist and used his other hand to pull himself up against the railing. It was excruciating.

“Bollocks,” he breathed. After all that, they still had to make it out of Azkaban. 

Wait… why had he and Ron been able to Floo there in the first place, if the wards were so strong?

Of course. Everything was carefully orchestrated. He couldn’t forget. They were allowed to come because that was exactly where Kingsley wanted them to be. He was still prepared to kill them all… or keep them from leaving. 

A cold chill passed over him. He looked up. Just below the ceiling at the highest part of the tower, a black smoke billowed from the door that lead to the roof.

The Dementors were coming to him.

Sure enough, hooded heads peered over the ledge, and though they had no eyes to speak of, each face seemed fixed on Draco. Merlin. This was far from the best time to deal with the kind of wraiths with whom one could not reason. They were singularly-minded on the consumption of fresh souls, and nothing else. Nevermind the quality of such a soul; Draco’s, in his own opinion, was hardly worth eating. As it was, he had spent a long time in his life with very dark thoughts, and the snuffing out of his life would no more nourish a Dementor than a meaty steak. But Hermione, on the other hand, who had known so much more joy… she was a prime target. 

One by one, six Dementors descended in swirls of cloth. They seemed neither eager or predatory. Just ready to feed on a feeble soul.

Draco sighed. How many times in his life had he waited for a Dementor’s Kiss that never came? Seeing one of those things hardly touched a nerve, anymore. He had always assumed that would be the way that he would go.

Just not today. Not with Her in his arms, knowing he possessed a great deal of white magic, knowing he could now create a patronus charm.

Not with the knowledge that he wanted to live.

Instead, he raised his wand, clutched Hermione tightly to his chest, and imagined the happiest day they ever might share. 

The potential in that thought… the hope in that dream he had for them manifested itself in a magnificent wolf made of light and fury, which burst forth from his wand when he exclaimed the words she had taught him.

“ _ Expecto Patronum!” _

Draco gasped for breath at the force with which his charm exploded. The Dementors returned from whence they came, and though he had not destroyed them, he made it clear that there were no souls available for their feast. There was one man whom Draco wouldn’t mind offering to the ghastly guards, if the opportunity presented itself.

First, they had to get back to Ron.

Draco lifted Hermione under her knees and groaned. He descended the first few steps with his love in arm before she stirred. 

“Draco?” Hermione breathed. Her eyes were mere slits, but she touched his cheek. Draco felt the air leave his lungs abruptly and he stumbled with her. He dropped her legs and grasped the railing to keep from taking them both down. She touched his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. She gasped when she took in the gash across his right eye… and then she realized the true extent of his injuries. “Sectum?” 

“Yes,” he said. “A guard. Death Eater. Kingsley is compromised.”

“Kingsley did this? All of this?”

“Grimes, this, everything,” Draco said. “The murders. Blaise. He wants to rid the world of ‘subordinate magic’.”

“He’s really lost it,” she said. Hermione grabbed her head and winced. Draco cupped her cheek. They exchanged a look of sympathy for each other’s wounds. He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I met someone here that I didn’t expect,” Hermione said. She grabbed Draco’s hand and held it against her heart. He cleared his throat.

“So... I didn’t imagine him, then,” Draco said. “He’s really down in that cell.”

“Yes. He’s been down there for ten years. And he is not the same man that put the diary into Ginny’s cauldron,” Hermione said. “We have to save him.”

Draco’s eyes welled. “We will. We’ve got to go back and get Ron, too.” Draco pushed himself up to stand and brushed his eyes on his sleeve.

“Ron came with you?” Hermione asked.

“If it weren’t for Ron Weasley, you and I both would be long dead,” Draco said. “Do you have your wand?”

Hermione shook her head. “They took it, and my shoes. But I can do enough without it to fight.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want us to go barreling into a fight--”

“I’ll blow them away. Trust me. You haven’t seen me when I’m really upset,” she said with a knowing smile. “Yet.”

“Good thing you won’t have to,” Draco said. He reached into his jacket and retrieved the guard’s wand that he had taken in the earlier scuffle. Hermione twirled it in her fingertips.

“It’ll do. It’s got nothing on my dragon heartstring core, but it’s sturdy.” She swished and flicked the new wand. Draco held out his hand to her and she took it.

“Whatever happens, you have to promise me that you will leave me behind if it means you can escape,” Draco said.

“It won’t come to that. Can you walk?”

“I’m fairly certain I can’t,” he said. “At least not well. Help me down the stairs?” He held out his arm to her. Hermione wrapped her arm around his waist and let him bear his weight on her shoulders. He regaled her with the story of how he had realized she was missing from court, how he had run mad all over London to find her… how they had finally settled on Azkaban and subsequently Floo’d there--only to walk right into Kingsley’s trap. 

And now, they had no idea what to expect as they tried to escape. Draco peered out into the hall of cells once they reached the main floor. Ron was crouched before his father’s cell, hand clasped with Lucius and speaking quietly. 

“Ron?” Hermione said. He looked up and his face filled with relief. He held out his arms to her. Draco released her to embrace the man who had once tried to sabotage their relationship. Their hug was brief, and she immediately returned her attention to Draco, who was losing his stamina rapidly. Ron took up his other side.

“He’s keen to see you, mate,” Ron murmured. Draco glanced at him and Ron nodded in encouragement.

“Where are the rest of the guards?” Draco asked.

Ron shrugged. “I don’t know, but that can’t be a good sign.”

“I don’t know about that,” Hermione breathed. She pointed.

It was then that Draco noticed the rest of the prisoners. They were silently watching, each one with their face pressed up against the bars of their cells. Some of the faces he recognized from the old days, but mostly, he saw weathered, wrinkled witches and wizards whose lives had been robbed from them by Kingsley Shacklebolt’s quest.

“They were all taken right after the Great War,” Ron said. “They had all removed themselves from the Wizard World, and they all have been imprisoned for nothing. Each day they’re told that one of them will be given the Dementor’s Kiss, and then they’re chosen to die by a lottery system… which is why there are only about twenty of them left in the whole of Azkaban.”

“So few?” Hermione asked.

“Your father told me, Draco,” Ron said. “When Kingsley took  _ him _ , they faked his death. That was before the realized that it was better to just do away with the dissenters entirely.”

Draco swallowed hard. “Which is why my mother went mad,” he said. 

“When Grimes tried to kill me the first time,” Hermione said softly. “That was the first time Kingsley tried to have me taken out.”

“Second time must’ve been when you wound up in the Muggle hospital,” Draco said. 

“I’ve just realized,” Hermione started, putting her hand over her mouth, “Ginny and Harry are trying to protect former Death Eaters and people who have withdrawn from magic. That’s why they couldn’t tell us!”

“Once you became involved with Draco, Kingsley was able to find out whether or not Joseph Grimes was alive. And now he knows who is protecting refugees,” Ron said.

“Which is why Blaise and Pansy tried to sabotage the Gala; they work for Kingsley, too.” Draco sighed. “Hermione, can you do anything about the gashes on my legs? I don’t think I’ll be able to stand up much longer.”

“Here, sit down,” she said. Ron helped Draco sit down on the floor, while Hermione tried to decide which spell might actually help him. She pulled up his trouser legs and examined the deep wounds, which would eventually heal into impressive scars like the one that crossed his chest.

“Well, it won’t do much good for your pain, but I suppose…” Hermione tapped her chin with the borrowed wand. She waved the wand over the deep cuts and muttered, “ _ Vulnera Sanentur. _ ” Draco had the strangest feeling of deja vu as his skin began to knit itself back together. Hermione repeated the incantation twice more, as his Godfather had done all those years ago when Harry Potter had innocently hit him with the same spell. She was right, however: his pain did not ease, but at least he would be able to stand without bleeding to death.

“Lucky you’re the Man in Black,” Ron chuckled. “Or doing your washing would be a nightmare.”

“I don’t think there’s much more that we can do right now,” Hermione said. “Once we’re home--if we get home--I’ll have to make you a dittany salve to help with the scarring.”

“That’s the bit that I’m worried about,” Ron sighed. “We could be facing hundreds of guards. We have no way of knowing how many Shacklebolt employs.”

“There is one small piece of hope,” Lucius Malfoy called from his cell. Draco looked at the man to whom he owed ½ of his genes. His silver hair had dulled over ten years, but there was no mistaking the Malfoy cheekbones, or those piercing grey eyes. He held out his hand to his son. Draco shook his head. “Ten years is a long time to live without a wand, my boy. Ten years is a long time to learn wandless magic.” Lucius held up his hand and a blue flame danced in his palm. One by one, each prisoner held out their hands and ignited a blue flame, until the entire floor was full of blue firelight.

“Shacklebolt has no idea,” Ron said. 

“He created an army,” Hermione laughed in disbelief.  

“We might just make it,” Draco said with a chuckle. He couldn’t help but feel hopeful. “As long as Shacklebolt doesn’t reinstate the wards.”

“Even that might not be a problem,” Ron said. “There was a block up on Apparition, but nothing is stopping a capable wizard from producing magic without their wand. I mean, obviously these are all powerful wizards, but even I can use magic without a wand with the right teacher.” Ron glanced at Lucius and held up his own hand. He produced a blue flame of his own.

“What’s this? So you  _ can _ teach old dogs… and blah, blah, blah, whatever they say.” Kingsley tapped his wand on his arm in the doorway and cloaked soldiers streamed in behind him. “Lucky for me, Mister Malfoy managed to shatter the wards, so my wand is just as useful as ever. Thank you for that, Mister Malfoy.” Shacklebolt nodded at Draco. “As precious as this pyrotechnic show is, I rather think it’s a waste of time. You’ll have to get through me.”

“That won’t be necessary.  _ They _ were preventing us from leaving, Shacklebolt,” Draco said, holding up his hands. “You’ll find that your prisoners are loyal to you alone.”

Kingsley chuckled. “You must think me an imbecile.”

“That’s one word for it,” Ron said. 

“You must release them all, Minister Shacklebolt,” Hermione said, standing. Her shoulder slipped out of Draco’s grasp and his panic grew rapidly. “Ten years is enough. If you release them now, quietly, the world never need know.”

“There’s a problem with that, Miss Granger,” Lucius said. “He will never let you live with the knowledge of what he’s done. Isn’t that right?”

“Precisely.” 

In the next moment, a torrent of magic exploded and Draco was knocked to the ground. Prisoners busted out of their cells; Death Eaters exchanged blows and fireballs with men and women who had waited ten long years for their revenge. Few fell to the spells of lesser wizards, and many of those without wands grasped hands to increase their magical energy. Draco’s hand searched the ground beside him for his wand and he sighed in relief when his hand closed around it.

Hermione, meanwhile, made good use of the Death Eater’s wand, disarming three guards and petrifying a fourth. She fell to the ground to dodge a green bolt of magic… the Killing Curse. “ _ Furnunculus! _ ” she screamed. The caster’s skin erupted in boils and he crumbled to the ground in pain.

_ “Magneticam Conteret _ !” Shacklebolt bellowed. The air left Hermione’s lungs as an invisible force pressed down on her chest.

_ “Finite Incantatem! _ ” Ron countered.

“ _ Crucio!” _

Ron keened as pain bit through him. Draco stepped in front of Ron and countered his attacker. “ _ Crucio! _ ” Draco shouted. Shacklebolt fell down to his knees and gritted his teeth.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Shacklebolt said. "You won't even be able to  _touch_ me, Malfoy."

Draco caught a second wind as the fury spread through him. He stood, pointed his wand at Kingsley Shacklebolt, and cast a quick succession of spells.

“ _ Langlock! _ ” rendered Shacklebolt unable to speak.

“ _ Expelliarmus! _ ” pulled Shacklebolt’s wand from his hand.

“ _ Stupefy! _ ” knocked the Minister of Magic unconscious.

The ruckus halted as Kingsley Shacklebolt’s body hit the floor. Ron helped Hermione to stand, and she went to Lucius, who had retreated to the back of his cell, despite the door having been blasted off its hinges.

The rest of the prisoners stood over the unconscious guards, while Draco bound Kingsley. Then, he looked up.

Hermione embraced his father in a comforting hug, while the man himself dissolved into tears of relief.

“That man made all of our lives hell,” Ron said. “I’m not sure he deserves to live.”

“I think he deserves the same consideration that he gave us,” Draco said. “We will deliver him into the hands of the Wizengamot and never think of him again.”

“I know someone who might make a good replacement for Minister of Magic,” Ron said. He looked pointedly at Hermione and then raised his eyebrows at Draco. 

“That’s up to her, Weasley,” Draco chuckled. “But first, we need to get all of the prisoners to St. Mungo’s and then… then, I need to deal with Grimes’ case.”

“Well, if you need me to testify again, I’m your man.” Ron held out his hand. Draco took it and hoped that the firm handshake portrayed how truly grateful he was to Ron.

A small hand grazed his shoulder. He turned.

Hermione opened her arms to him, and he scooped her up. He didn’t ever want to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go: A resolution to Draco's case, and the future of the Malfoys.


	28. Chapter 28: The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shacklebolt is condemned. They are relieved.

Hermione’s hands shook. The familiar prickle crawled up her arms and she gripped the arms of the wooden witness’ chair to stay it. She could feel Draco’s concerned gaze on the nape of her neck and she willed him to look anywhere but at her; for once, she wished he wasn’t there. She felt distracted by his presence. When the Wizengamot had been called for an emergency trial, the body had insisted that Hermione testify on behalf of the prosecution--but there wasn’t much of a defense for Shacklebolt, anyway. He would be tried on a formality. The real trial, she feared, would be whether or not the rest of the Wizarding world believed that she was a traitor to magic, like Shacklebolt did. It could be a total character assassination, if she wasn’t careful. Draco had urged her to speak, however; he truly believed that they needed to hear from her, as someone they had once hailed a war hero. 

Her brain was closing in on itself; all at once she felt herself forgetting why she was there, what they had endured, why she needed the Wizengamot to know that Kingsley Shacklebolt was the one behind the murders of “dissenting magic folk”--that she had been targeted by Shacklebolt specifically. 

The man himself was being held by an Anti-Disapparition charm, and bound in a circle of blue fire, which prevented him from speaking unless directly addressed. He looked pained in the one moment Hermione had ventured a glance at him.

In lieu of an official replacement Chief Warlock to lead the proceedings, as the former Chief was the one on trial, Minerva McGonagall was to preside. The risers were filled with a collection of concerned members of the Ministry, all fifty members of the Wizengamot jury, and gawkers, desperate for a scoop on the assured dissolution of the Wizengamot. A gruff looking Auror stepped up to the bench and rapped his wand sharply on the desk three times. Then, he pressed the tip to his neck to amplify his voice.

“Please rise for the Honorable Minerva McGonagall, interim inquisitor and Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

It was with admirable pomp and flourish that McGonagall entered the buzzing chamber. It had been close to ten years since Hermione had truly conversed with her former Transfiguration professor; Hermione was nervous that the first time they should speak following her well-publicized withdrawal from Wizarding society was in a courtroom. When she took the bench, she gave Hermione a curt nod--and yet there was a reassuring glint in her eye. Hermione breathed out sharply and ventured a glance behind her at Draco.

Draco was flanked by his parents, both seeming frail. His mother gripped the arm of his velvet coat tightly, while clutching the hand of her nurse with the other. His father was conversing quietly with Harry. Draco was looking at her in concern, but as soon as they made eye contact, his eyes softened and he mouthed to her three words.

_ You are Strong. _

McGonagall wasted no time. She launched into her remarks.

“It is under grave circumstances that we are gathered here, today,” she said. “We have been duped by a man who we should have had full faith in; a man who, by all intents and purposes, lead the resistance against Lord Voldemort. I believe it was his plan to rid our world of any dissent at all. Though I cannot say how long he planned to carry out his grand plans against the Ministry, I can say for certain that it has been several years in the making.”

She leaned forward and addressed Hermione directly.

“Miss Granger, would you please address the jury and give your account?”

Hermione nodded. “After the war, I--I decided to step away from the Wizarding world. It was too painful after all the people we lost at Hogwarts. I couldn’t bear it, to be honest.” A hum rumbled around the room, though none of their voices were distinguishable. Hermione clasped her hands together in her lap. “Five years ago, I met a Muggle man named Joseph Grimes and we became involved in a romantic relationship.” She breathed out slowly to calm her nerves. “He became abusive, and on one occasion… he nearly killed me. I confunded him, he turned himself into the police, and I was told that he died in a prison brawl. And I assumed that was the end of it. Until Draco Malfoy and I discovered that Joseph Grimes is not only alive, but being held in a Ministry halfway house.” Hermione closed her eyes and tried to quash a horrid desire to look at Shacklebolt.

“Is Draco Malfoy present?” McGonagall called. Hermione’s eyes shot to where Draco sat behind her, several rows up. He stood hesitantly, crossed his hands before him, and nodded.

“Mister Malfoy, would you please enlighten the court with your own connection to this trial?” McGonagall asked, motioning him to approach the railing. Draco descended the stairs in utter silence. The room was decidedly rapt to know why a Malfoy was involved, but their tone was not malicious. Draco stood within arm’s reach of Hermione, placed his hands upon the railing, and sighed.

“As you know, Inquisitor, I, too, have been making my living outside the Wizarding world for the last ten years as a barrister in London. I have, of late, been lead prosecutor on a case that has been solved because of the revelations brought to light by this trial. Just yesterday, Boyd Grimes, brother of Joseph Grimes, was convicted on seven counts of murder, and one count of conspiracy to murder Hermione Granger,” Draco said. His voice wavered as he said her name. “It was discovered that Joseph Grimes and his brother were disciples of Voldemort, though neither were Deatheaters, so they were unknown to my family. After the Dark Lord was defeated, the brothers went into hiding. When Shacklebolt began recruiting wizards to track down those who chose to live a non-magical life, he specifically sought out those who had fought for blood purity.”

“The court has become aware that Mister Shacklebolt has been a blood purist for many years,” McGonagall said. “Let the evidence be brought into the courtroom.” A page entered and handed a leather-bound book to McGonagall. She flipped until she found the page she was looking for. Hermione noted how her brow furrowed deeply, and her eyes followed her finger as it traced the page.

“I submit into evidence Kingsley Shacklebolt’s personal diary,” she said. “In an entry from January of twenty-twelve, he illustrates a marked interest in the appearance of Miss Granger at a memorial event at Hogwarts. Am I right in thinking that the dedication of the Battle of Hogwarts memorial was your first and only return to the Wizarding world since the war?” She nodded to Hermione, who glanced at Draco. He nodded in encouragement.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “With the exception of my recent pursuit of this case, that was the only time I had returned. Had I not become… involved with…” She willed herself to keep her relationship with Draco separate from the trial. She refused to have them come under scrutiny. “...the case against Boyd Grimes, and discovered that Joseph was still alive, I might never have come back. But I believe that was when I became Shacklebolt’s particular target. Though the Grimes’ brothers had fixed on me as a “dissenter” quite quickly after the war, I had not caught Shacklebolt’s attention until the Daily Prophet published a story about my return.”

“Yes, you do not appear in his account until that day,” McGonagall agreed. “Mister Malfoy, would you be so kind as to illustrate for us what sort of people were being held in Azkaban when you, Miss Granger, and your band of liberators stormed the prison?” She couldn’t help but convey her sense of pride in him, which, coming from her, was quite a miraculous sound. 

“Well, as much as we can figure, the true criminals were set loose in the world, or else recruited for his brute squad,” Draco said. “The rest were those who practiced what he calls ‘subordinate magic’--he particularly referred to them as ‘conscientious objectors’. People like my father,” he said, gesturing to his teary-eyed father in the stands, “who no longer believed in taking innocent lives. People he wanted to torture for their dissention.”

The room exploded with outrage and Hermione felt her heart leap with pride. These people weren’t angry with Draco; they were outraged with Shacklebolt. Minerva McGonagall rose to her feet and held up her hand to silence the court.

“I believe I have heard enough.” She descended the stairs to the courtroom floor, where Kingsley Shacklebolt was captive. She stood close enough to him that you could see her hairs ruffled by his heavy breaths. “Do you deny any of these claims against you?” she growled.

“I do not.”

McGonagall nodded only once, turned her back on him, and strode back to her perch. “I believe I can speak for the entire Wizengamot when I pass sentence on you, Kingsley Shacklebolt. You are hereby sentenced to death. There will be no Dementors to take your soul from you, no cell to rot in, no prison to live out your days. There will be no talk of mercy, no chance for you to explain yourself, no last rites. I don’t believe that you deserve to breathe the same air as the witches and wizards in this room who once looked to you as the iron gavel of judgment. You are a sentence on a page of a history book, and it will be my duty to make certain that this is the only memory of you once you are gone.” She motioned to her attending Auror. Five additional Aurors entered the room and flanked Shaklebolt. McGonagall stood and addressed the speechless crowd. 

“It has been brought to my attention that the position of Chief Warlock must be filled, or the Wizengamot will be forced to dissolve,” McGonagall said. “As of today, I will be stepping down as Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in order to serve as the Interim Chief, until such time as a new Chief Warlock can be elected. In my stead, I am appointing Neville Longbottom as Headmaster. I have already sent word to the school and arranged for a smooth transition. This court is adjourned. Auror Flagg, if you please.” She gestured to the exit and followed close behind as the Aurors escorted Kingsley Shacklebolt to his death.

Draco closed his eyes. Wizards streamed past him on their way out of the courtroom. They murmured--buzzed--with excitement and trepidation and fear; the Wizengamot hadn’t dissolved, despite everything, but Azkaban was to be demolished. The Minister had been unseated, so there would soon be a need for a general election. Hogwarts was in capable hands. The Wizarding world would still move forward. The last footfalls quieted into distant echoey taps and Draco opened his eyes. A single paper settled on the chamber floor, just then. He sighed. 

“Do you remember the end of Umbridge?” Hermione asked from her seat on the witness stand. Draco shook his head. She smiled.

“She allowed Harry and I to lead her into the Dark Forest,” she said.

“That part I remember,” Draco said. “We were supposed to hold Dumbledore’s Army in her office until she returned with Dumbledore’s weapon.”

“In the end, it was relatively quick; the centaurs came to our aid and she was gone.” Hermione shook her head. “It just… seems strange how we had all this build up and fought so hard--and then it was over so quickly.”

“Would you have wanted it to be slow and painful?” 

“No, of course not. I just feel like we destroyed the Wizarding world in one fell swoop.”

“We didn’t.” Draco placed his hand over hers. “It’s not the end.”

“Nobody trusts the Wizengamot anymore, let alone the Ministry.”

“No, but they trust  _ her _ .” Draco cupped her cheek. “And they will continue to look to Hogwarts as a bastion of hope, as they always have. And we will sleep better at night.” He kissed her forehead.

“Who would’ve thought Neville would be Headmaster?” she sighed. Draco tilted his head and snickered. “What?”

Draco full-on bellowed with laughter. “What, as opposed to… you?”

She jabbed him in the chest. “You, for one!”

Draco feigned insult. “Me? I never!”

“Oh yes you, you big nerd. I know who else got top marks in our year, Draco. You, also, could be Headmaster.”

“I never! I always assumed it would be you. Well, at one point I thought, ‘well she’s shit at Divinations, but who takes stock in tea leaves and crystal balls anyhow?” Draco teased.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but she said nothing. Draco held out his arm to her and she took it without question--but she leaned on him a little harder than usual. He looked over his shoulder, but saw that they were alone, and he hugged her close. He pressed his face into her curls. 

“Hermione?” he whispered.

“Mmhm?”

“Please don’t ever leave me.”

Hermione curled her fingers into his plush jacket. “Can I tell you something?” she mumbled into his chest. Draco pulled back far enough that he could look down into her face. “I want to be married to you.”

Draco could not speak. He was gobsmacked. He loved her, true, but he could not have dreamed that he would ever marry anyone without his parents arranging it. There was once a time that he had thought he would be alone. His parents were alive. His parents were relatively lucid, though it was still touch-and-go. He went to sleep every night with a woman who was willing to fight for him-- _ with him.  _ He wasn’t reviled by his peers anymore. He won the biggest case of his career because of the support of the woman in his arms. The woman who wanted to be his wife. Forever stuff.

“I need you, my dear,” he said, finally. “But first… dinner?”

“Dinner,” she agreed. She inclined her head up to kiss him. “And then we can get married.”

“Mmm. After that.” Draco smiled. Hermione smiled. 

“Draco? Are you coming?” His mother smiled from the upper doorway, lit from the torches that flanked the archway. 

“Yes, sorry,” he called. He smiled down at Hermione, took her hand, and walked up to meet his mother.

“Do you know that this talented lady got O’s on her OWL’s, Draco?” Lucius said, taking Hermione’s other arm as they reached the top of the stairs. Draco rolled his eyes with a laugh.

“I am aware that Hermione is Outstanding in all things, Father,” Draco said.

“I’m right here!” Hermione laughed. “Come, we’re both quite hungry, and we know of a great sandwich shop in Covent Garden.”

“Sounds delightful,” Lucius said. He squeezed Hermione’s arm. She took Draco’s hand. Draco held his mother’s elbow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 20th Anniversary of Harry Potter! Thank you, thank you, thank you, for your undying patience with me. It has been hard for me to fathom ending this piece. I did not want to end on a perfect tone; I believe that there should be *some* ambiguity in an ending, so the audience can dream.
> 
> I believe that Draco could heal. I believe in Hermione and Draco. I have loved telling their story, and I believe there may be more in the long run. Perhaps I'll add a sequel, but that's far from a promise. Thank you for your readership and your love.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! I can't wait to hear what you think, you cute readers. x
> 
> NOTE: Hermione has symptoms of Anxiety, Depression, and PTSD. For the purposes of this story, I won't be delving deeply into any sort of diagnosis, but may of the physical and mental sensations she experiences are the direct result of a struggle with her mental health.


End file.
